“Everywhere I go,” the man said, staring through a window at the darkness pressing in against the glass, “there are always puddles of water beneath my feet. I think it’s supposed to mean something, but I don’t know what.”

To Jacob, sitting at the counter next to the man, the diner seemed to be too harshly lit, as if every object within had been rendered with almost painful intensity. He glanced at the man sitting on the next seat and sighed. One of those, he thought. Just my luck.

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