They lay watching the lopsided moon inching over the edge of the streaked and gritty skylight. In the dark, she giggled. "What's so funny?" "I just heard Van Richie. Right in the middle of the news." "Get that thing out of here." "He just came right in while the man was talking." "Give it to--" "Listen." She held the radio to his ear. He listened briefly, then turned the radio off and put it on the table. Later, when he got up for a cigarette, he saw it in the light of the match. "How did you know that was him? You weren't even born then." But she was asleep. * * * * * Harry Freed locked up on the dot of nine. He left a night light over the rear counter, connected the alarm, and walked wearily to the car. The traffic was lighter tonight. Thank God. He was exhausted. Waiting for the light at Seventh Avenue, he leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. It would be nice if Edith had a cup of hot cocoa ready for him. But tonight was Perry Como. She'd be glued to the set. A horn honked behind him. He started, jerked forward and stalled the car. The light changed back to red before he could get it started again. People at the crosswalk stared at him. He felt himself blushing. Edith was right. They should have bought her brother's car last spring and got rid of this one. The pavements were still wet, repeating the lights of Times Square in blurred patches of color. The rain had killed the day's receipts. He dreaded telling Edith. They said tomorrow would be better. He switched on the radio to get the news and weather. The traffic moved slower now. He looked nervously at his watch. Even with Perry Como, she didn't like it when he was late. Why hadn't Saul made both deliveries today? Why only one? Reminder: see Hodges at the bank tomorrow. And write Ruth; ask about his nephew's broken arm. Horns again. A cop waving him on. God, he was tired. His eyes. Edith wanted him to get glasses. "... clearing, with some cloudiness. Wind from the north ..." Van Richie singing. Why are they always digging up Ninth Avenue? Maybe Eleventh would be better. Crazy taxis. Look at that nut, cutting in and out. _Van Richie?_ He twisted the dial. "Wheat was off but cotton was higher...." "Our love came much too soo-oo-oon!" "Next news at 10:30...." "Real, unfiltered tobacco flavor...." He had heard him, though. He was sure of it. He told Edith about it when he got home. She said he was crazy. Van Richie had retired long ago. * * * * * The book had pictures of things he knew, with the English names beneath them. Each word was spelled the way it was pronounced. With the rug wrapped around him and the book spread on top of the radiator, Gabriel Sangre said the word aloud, slowly, trying to remember what Miss Alvirez had said: where the mark was, was louder. He was hungry. But he did not eat. What was left in the window-sill box had to last until Friday.