On her way into the elementary school my daughter high-fives Officer Drummond. In the heat of autumn birds at the gas station sip from puddles of condensation left by cars’ air conditioners. In the yard a black plastic oilpan doubles as a birdbath. Under the overpass a crouching woman sways back and forth, shouting at the ceaseless chain of cars. The AI chatbot tells me what it supposes I think I might want to say next. Two-factor authentication ensures I am kept from being defrauded or deceived. From these arid plains I am told our redemption shall emerge. Trying to fend off the nest-building barn swallows, I accidentally ensnared one in duct tape. When we came home it was flying in place, its wing affixed to the back porch wall. The TV prophet says one day all consciousnesses will become one. On how many days does my dead father cross my mind?—most days, nearly every day. Job seekers send persistent emails with the subject line “Freedom,” with the subject line “Exhaustion.” Feeling trapped within our lives we attend the symphony. Nothing changes but the total number of tears shed. What is not drowning is multiplying. Let’s lie low in the cool suburban evenings. Let’s swap our obsession with money for an obsession with time. Next year we will plant a garden on the other side of the house. I feel something taking its shape, a pattern woven in cloud. When my son strained to look for me he could not see me. I was in back of the crowd, waving both hands.