My friend’s wife, Rachel, told me about Albert, the boy who walks backwards, one time I was in London. It was around the same time when I was permanently anxious, due in no small part to a recurring dream I was having where I fall down some stairs. We were waiting on a delivery of Chinese food and I was wondering which credit card was least likely to ricochet when it came the time to pay for the glutinous proportions we had ordered when Rachel suddenly felt the need to mention Albert. “What?” I said, when nothing else was forthcoming. She might as well have said when the bell rings . That would have generated an equal amount of anticipation for what should come next: when the bell rings, what ? “He’s Albert,” she reiterated, “the boy who walks backwards. That’s it.” After probing a little bit more, I didn't get any worthwhile information. Rachel and her husband to’d and fro’d to the kitchen table, crossing each other’s paths in opposite directions as they stocked the table w
It’s unusually warm for 6:30 in the morning, October, 12th, in what will be confirmed as the warmest year on record. A few people jogging with the hope of lowering their anxieties do so in attire more suitable for summer. They check gadgets on their wrists, run on the spot, and breathe deep to sooth knots within. A tall gangly man grey as the ash-end of his cigarette leans on a wall. He stubs out the butt on a sidewalk speckled with gold autumnal leaves, and is cynical of the beauty for he knows the humiliation of slipping on their slickness. He pushes his bright yellow mountain bike forward, hops on. Aaron Fisher maneuvers the bike through an intersection near Harvard University. The 45-year-old law professor’s helmet exaggerates his features, makes him look older, and serious. Not expecting high temperatures, he’s wearing cotton sweat pants and a red waterproof jacket one size too small. He’s fearful of a silver station wagon navigating the intersection alongside him and allows