The ultraviolet index, which I could never understand, was close to ten, which meant that if you stepped out into it you’d probably die of skin cancer faster than you would of exposure in the middle of winter at the North Pole. I pulled my Chicago Cubs baseball cap down about an inch.

Earlier that morning I had biked the five blocks to the downtown YMCA, locked up my bike, showed my card, got my things out of my locker, and worked out. Pounding the step machine, fighting the leg weights, pumping, running, stretching muscles, straining arms and legs, pushing. I needed it. Not because I treasured my body but because I could lose myself in the burn, the edge of physical pain, the satisfaction of starting at A and completing stages that took me through to Z, if I decided to go that far. At the end I could feel what I had accomplished or had done to myself. It was finite. It was satisfying. When I was finished working out, I always showered slowly, the water as hot as I could take it, letting it beat into my head and body drowning out voices, light, the world. It never fully exhausted me, though. That would have been an additional benefit. One of the many blessings or curses of Lewis Fonesca was that nothing exhausted me for very long: not working out, not working, not too little sleep or too much sleep.

I had pedaled back past the Hollywood 20 theater, the city and county buildings on Washington, past the small shops and to where I sat now, early burger and Blizzard in hand, newspaper in front of me.

I sat quietly digesting my burger and Dave’s observation. Dave drank his water and accidentally spilled a few drops on his white apron.

“My kids are coming Saturday for their annual two weeks,” he said. “My ex is going to Guam to study brown tree snakes. What do you do with an eight and ten year old? I’ll take them to Busch, Universal, Disney. Saturday I’ll take them to First Watch for breakfast. They love it. Another year or two and they’ll outgrow it. Maybe.”