Last night after the rain I trailed my neighbor through the dark park, watched him tip up wet cans with his foot and inspect the empty pavilion on the hill. He looked into the light of every puddle and each blossom of trash in the brush while I glided among the trees unseen. Then down Abbey Street he wandered, shushing all the dogs with the palm of his hand and it was as if he beckoned me. Beneath the unlit sign of Bea’s Diner, he knelt and scooped parking lot sand into small piles that might cradle votive candles. Crossing East Chapel, he drew into the woods themselves and I lost him there. All night I waited, feeling the dew gather on my arms and the freeway roar, and only a fat opossum came forth with his raw nose and bare tail turning up trash and devouring. Dawn found me disheveled on my front step, the object of a knowing look from the papergirl.