“Another day,” he said to the empty room.
And somewhere deep beneath the city, the pipes held. Because Dthrip had held them first.
Back in his apartment, he sat by the window as the light failed. The feral cat had succeeded. The pigeon lay in the alley, a small ruin. The kitten was cleaning its face with the fastidiousness of a surgeon. Dthrip raised his bottle in a toast no one saw.