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boxes were cracked open and their oil drained for use in lamps. Driving was a luxury few outside the Heights could afford. Half the cars in the city—half the cars around the world, Oscar supposed—had been dented or crashed on Gray Wednesday. His own car had gained a dent in the front. Oscar drew down another shutter on that memory.
    Rain tapped on his hat and waxed jacket. Voices ahead in the dark.
    The Church of St. Brigid stood as dark and imposing as a castle, with pointed spires and tall windows as narrow and deep as arrow slits. Those stained-glass windows were now boarded over with warped and spray-painted plyboard. The church grounds commanded a sweeping view: the city’s skyscrapers punched up into the low sky a half mile away, and the surrounding suburbs were a patchwork of blacks and grays, sprinkled with weak yellow stars of kerosene lamps. Once, Oscar had been pleased to live so close to the city; now he felt he was in some kind of shackled dance with it. As he passed a low brick wall, he saw a fire burning inside an old washing-machine tub between the church’s brick buttresses. Flames hissed as drops fell from under theeaves. The wet air carried the unmistakable, acidic smell of Delete—a cheap hallucinogen made from solvents found in correction fluid and cooked in basement drug labs. The firelight cast tall shadows over the church’s brick flanks, heavily spray-painted with tags, grotesque faces and roughly drawn sex organs. Feet shuffled in the shadows.
    “Ciggy, mate?”
    Oscar couldn’t tell if the voice was male or female; it was as rough as boot heels on husks. A figure detached from the darkness behind the dancing flames. “Cigarette? Tea? Greek for a tea bag.”
    Oscar heard a muffled sound of metal and fabric, something being unzipped. Or unsheathed.
    He drew his pistol and held it in clear view.
    “ ’Kay, okay.” The shadow retreated.
    His street was steep, and he walked slowly so as not to slip on wet leaves that would never be swept. Houses were dark and close together. His own was a slim, pretty timber worker’s cottage that sat expectantly on a skirt of white battens, as if tonight might be the night Oscar would finally clean and paint her. He unlocked the front door and was about to call out that he was home, and felt foolish. Old habits. His keys slipped from his grasp and hit the wood floor with a clatter. As he bent to retrieve them, a dark shadow slipped silently behind him, shoving against his calves and tripping his feet. His mind yelled in a sudden panic—he put out one hand to stop himself from falling and his other arm fumbled for his gun. The shadow then did a loop and came back to rub itself against his arms and legs. It let out a gravelly mew.
    “Sissy.” Oscar got up, the pain in his knees making him feel old. “Idiot.”
    The cat looked at him archly, as if to say, “Idiot? Who was the one who fell down?” His purr sent deep vibrations up Oscar’s legs for a moment, then the cat sauntered with a strange, crablike gait into the dark kitchen. A less milquetoasty cat was difficult to imagine: Sisyphus was unnaturally large, and his coat was a battleground of ashy-gray fur and hairless patches of scarred skin. One ear was ripped at its edges, the other was half gone, and he walked as if his spine had been permanently redirected. He checked his food bowl and let out a disappointed growl. Oscar took off his coat and lit the hurricane lamp; the cat’s pupils became large orange orbs.
    Oscar squatted on the tiled hearth in front of the fireplace, slippedhis fingers into two almost invisible holes, and pulled out the false brick panel. Behind were three shelves: on the bottommost were two boxes of cat food. It seemed no time since there had been dozens, bought before the big supermarket on LaTrobe Terrace went out of business. That was nearly two years ago. When these biscuits ran out, Sissy would have to start eating leftovers.
    While he squatted, Oscar took quick