Tito rubbed his hands together. He wanted the numbness in his fingers to stop. He couldn’t get any work done. He sat on his hands for a few minutes and this helped, but not enough. He went to the bathroom and ran hot water over his hands. Much better.

 

In the living room he looked at all the junk on his coffee table. It had accumulated so quickly. He’d only lived in the unit for a month, and already it resembled a sty. He needed air.

 

He put on his runners and a light jacket. It had been warm for September, but windy.

 

As he walked from his tenement to the nearby plaza, he tripped on a sidewalk crack and fell down, striking his head on the concrete pavement. He blacked out for a second.

 

When he came to, a man in black with a long nose and strange eyes stood over him.

 

“That was some fall. You damn near cracked your noggin.”

 

“I’m okay, I think.”

 

The man’s teeth were set so far back in his mouth, at first glance he appeared not to have any. Also, he wore shoes with no socks.

 

“Do you need help standing?”

 

“Give me a sec.”

 

“You’re bleeding.”

 

“I am?” Tito touched his head and sure enough felt the blood. He looked at his gooey fingers. Blood dried quickly.

 

The man handed him a paper tissue. The man was wearing a loose black suit with no shirt underneath. His wrists were so thin they looked like sticks emerging from his sleeves, attached to clown hands, for his hands were bizarrely red and swollen.

 

“You’re an unusual-looking man.”

 

“People say that, yes.”

 

“I mean, you look pieced together.”

 

“Don’t we all?”

 

The man’s eyes weren’t quite aligned on his face. The right sat at least an inch lower than the left.

 

“You better get that looked at,” he said. “You might need stitches.”

 

Speaking of stitches, only as the strange man walked away did Tito notice that the back of his head was shaved and bore a purple scar a half-foot long that resembled a zipper.