You drive away from the Public Library at four p.m. in dusty yellow light. Ahead of you the bank clock says it’s ninety-five degrees. You have to stop for the freight train, so you glance behind you down Main and there is no one there, but only the shabby thin sunglazed windows and the wider light silting down on the white street. The few cars looking abandoned, the City Hall with its blank windows, and Carlos’ Cafe with only one blue pickup parked in front. Ahead of you there pass the freight cars, one second long each, between the bank clock, 4:05, 95, 4:05, 95, 4:05, 95. You listen to the roar, light falling on your shoulder, and the heat and whiteness behind grows in your head until you are listening to nothing.