Alan rang the next-door house’s doorbell at eight a.m. He had a bag of coffees from the Greek diner. Five coffees, one for each bicycle locked to the wooden railing on the sagging porch plus one for him.

He waited five minutes, then rang the bell again, holding it down, listening for the sound of footsteps over the muffled jangling of the buzzer. It took two minutes more, he estimated, but he didn’t mind. It was a beautiful summer day, soft and moist and green, and he could already smell the fish market over the mellow brown vapors of the strong coffee.

A young woman in long johns and a baggy tartan T-shirt opened the door. She was excitingly plump, round and a little jiggly, the kind of woman Alan had always gone for. Of course, she was all of twenty-two, and so was certainly not an appropriate romantic interest for him, but she was fun to look at as she ungummed her eyes and worked the sleep out of her voice.

“Yes?” she said through the locked screen door. Her voice brooked no nonsense, which Alan also liked. He’d hire her in a second, if he were still running a shop. He liked to hire sharp kids like her, get to know them, try to winkle out their motives and emotions through observation.

“Good morning!” Alan said. “I’m Alan, and I just moved in next door. I’ve brought coffee!” He hefted his sack in her direction.

“Good morning, Alan,” she said. “Thanks and all, but—”

“Oh, no need to thank me! Just being neighborly. I brought five—one for each of you and one for me.”

“Well, that’s awfully nice of you—”

“Nothing at all. Nice morning, huh? I saw a robin just there, on that tree in the park, not an hour ago. Fantastic.”

“Great.” She unlatched the screen door and opened it, reaching for the sack.

Alan stepped into the foyer and handed it to her. “There’s cream and sugar in there,” he said. “Lots—don’t know how you folks take it, so I just figured better sure than miserable, better to err on the side of caution. Wow, look at this, your place has a completely different layout from mine. I think they were built at the same time, I mean, they look a lot alike. I don’t really know much about architecture, but they really do seem the same, don’t they, from the outside? But look at this! In my place, I’ve got a long corridor before you get to the living room, but your place is all open. I wonder if it was built that way, or if someone did that later. Do you know?”

“No,” she said, hefting the sack.

“Well, I’ll just have a seat while you get your roommates up, all right? Then we can all have a nice cup of coffee and a chat and get to know each other.”

She dithered for a moment, then stepped back toward the kitchen and the stairwell. Alan nodded and took a little tour of the living room. There was a very nice media totem, endless shelves of DVDs and videos, including a good selection of Chinese kung-fu VCDs and black and white comedies. There was a stack of guitar magazines on the battered coffee table, and a cozy sofa with an afghan folded neatly on one arm. Good kids, he could tell that just by looking at their possessions.

Not very security-conscious, though. She should have either kicked him out or dragged him around the house while she got her roomies out of bed. He thought about slipping some VCDs into his pocket and returning them later, just to make the point, but decided it would be getting off on the wrong foot.

She returned a moment later, wearing a fuzzy yellow robe whose belt and seams were gray with grime and wear. “They’re coming down,” she said.

“Terrific!” Alan said, and planted himself on the sofa. “How about that coffee, hey?”

She shook her head, smiled a little, and retrieved a coffee for him. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Nope,” Alan said. “The Greek makes it just the way I like it. Black and strong and aromatic. Try some before you add anything—it’s really fantastic. One of the best things about the neighborhood, if you ask me.”

Another young woman, rail-thin with a shaved head, baggy jeans, and a tight t-shirt that he could count her ribs through, shuffled into the living room. Alan got to his feet and extended his hand. “Hi there! I’m Adam, your new neighbor! I brought coffees!”

She shook his hand, her long fingernails sharp on his palm. “Natalie,” she said.

The other young woman passed a coffee to her. “He brought coffees,” she said. “Try it before you add anything to it.” She turned to Alan. “I thought you said your name was Alan?”

“Alan, Adam, Andy. Doesn’t matter, I answer to any of them. My mom had a hard time keeping our names straight.”

“Funny,” Natalie said, sipping at her coffee. “Two sugars, three creams,” she said, holding her hand out. The other woman silently passed them to her.

“I haven’t gotten your name yet,” Alan said.

“Right,” the other one said. “You sure haven’t.”

A young man, all of seventeen, with straggly sideburns and a shock of pink hair sticking straight up in the air, shuffled into the room, wearing cutoffs and an unbuttoned guayabera.

“Adam,” Natalie said, “this is Link, my kid brother. Link, this is Arthur—he brought coffees.”

“Hey, thanks, Arthur,” Link said. He accepted his coffee and stood by his sister, sipping reverently.

“So that leaves one more,” Alan said. “And then we can get started.”

Link snorted. “Not likely. Krishna doesn’t get out of bed before noon.”

“Krishna?” Alan said.

“My boyfriend,” the nameless woman said. “He was up late.”

“More coffee for the rest of us, I suppose,” Alan said. “Let’s all sit and get to know one another, then, shall we?”

They sat. Alan slurped down the rest of his coffee, then gestured at the sack. The nameless woman passed it to him and he got the last one, and set to drinking.

“I’m Andreas, your new next-door neighbor. I’ve just finished renovating, and I moved in last night. I’m really looking forward to spending time in the neighborhood—I work from home, so I’ll be around a bunch. Feel free to drop by if you need to borrow a cup of sugar or anything.”

“That’s so nice of you,” Natalie said. “I’m sure we’ll get along fine!”

“Thanks, Natalie. Are you a student?”

“Yup,” she said. She fished in the voluminous pockets of her jeans, tugging them lower on her knobby hips, and came up with a pack of cigarettes. She offered one to her brother—who took it—and one to Alan, who declined, then lit up. “Studying fashion design at OCAD. I’m in my last year, so it’s all practicum from now on.”

“Fashion! How interesting,” Alan said. “I used to run a little vintage clothes shop in the Beaches, called Tropicál.”

“Oh, I loved that shop,” she said. “You had the best stuff! I used to sneak out there on the streetcar after school.” Yup. He didn’t remember her, exactly, but her type, sure. Solo girls with hardcover sketch books and vintage clothes home-tailored to a nice fit.

“Well, I’d be happy to introduce you to some of the people I know—there’s a vintage shop that a friend of mine runs in Parkdale. He’s always looking for designers to help with rehab and repros.”

“That would be so cool!”

“Now, Link, what do you study?”

Link pulled at his smoke, ashed in the fireplace grate. “Not much. I didn’t get into Ryerson for electrical engineering, so I’m spending a year as a bike courier, taking night classes, and reapplying for next year.”

“Well, that’ll keep you out of trouble at least,” Alan said. He turned to the nameless woman.

“So, what do you do, Apu?” she said to him, before he could say anything.

“Oh, I’m retired, Mimi,” he said.

“Mimi?” she said.

“Why not? It’s as good a name as any.”

“Her name is—” Link started to say, but she cut him off.

“Mimi is as good a name as any. I’m unemployed. Krishna’s a bartender.”

“Are you looking for work?”

She smirked. “Sure. Whatcha got?”

“What can you do?”

“I’ve got three-quarters of a degree in environmental studies, one year of kinesiology, and a half-written one-act play. Oh, and student debt until the year 3000.”

“A play!” he said, slapping his thighs. “You should finish it. I’m a writer, too, you know.”

“I thought you had a clothing shop.”

“I did. And a bookshop, and a collectibles shop, and an antique shop. Not all at the same time, you understand. But now I’m writing. Going to write a story, then I imagine I’ll open another shop. But I’m more interested in you, Mimi, and your play. Why half-finished?”

She shrugged and combed her hair back with her fingers. Her hair was brown and thick and curly, down to her shoulders. Alan adored curly hair. He’d had a clerk at the comics shop with curly hair just like hers, an earnest and bright young thing who drew her own comics in the back room on her breaks, using the receiving table as a drawing board. She’d never made much of a go of it as an artist, but she did end up publishing a popular annual anthology of underground comics that had captured the interest of the New Yorker the year before. “I just ran out of inspiration,” Mimi said, tugging at her hair.

“Well, there you are. Time to get inspired again. Stop by any time and we’ll talk about it, all right?”

“If I get back to it, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Tremendous!” he said. “I just know it’ll be fantastic. Now, who plays the guitar?”

“Krishna,” Link said. “I noodle a bit, but he’s really good.”

“He sure is,” Alan said. “He was in fine form last night, about three a.m.!” He chuckled pointedly.

There was an awkward silence. Alan slurped down his second coffee. “Whoops!” he said. “I believe I need to impose on you for the use of your facilities?”

“What?” Natalie and Link said simultaneously.

“He wants the toilet,” Mimi said. “Up the stairs, second door on the right. Jiggle the handle after you flush.”

The bathroom was crowded with too many towels and too many toothbrushes. The sink was powdered with blusher and marked with lipstick and mascara residue. It made Alan feel at home. He liked young people. Liked their energy, their resentment, and their enthusiasm. Didn’t like their guitar-playing at three a.m.; but he’d sort that out soon enough.

He washed his hands and carefully rinsed the long curly hairs from the bar before replacing it in its dish, then returned to the living room.

“Abel,” Mimi said, “sorry if the guitar kept you up last night.”

“No sweat,” Alan said. “It must be hard to find time to practice when you work nights.”

“Exactly,” Natalie said. “Exactly right! Krishna always practices when he comes back from work. He blows off some steam so he can get to bed. We just all learned to sleep through it.”

“Well,” Alan said, “to be honest, I’m hoping I won’t have to learn to do that. But I think that maybe I have a solution we can both live with.”

“What’s that?” Mimi said, jutting her chin forward.

“It’s easy, really. I can put up a resilient channel and a baffle along that wall there, soundproofing. I’ll paint it over white and you won’t even notice the difference. Shouldn’t take me more than a week. Happy to do it. Thick walls make good neighbors.”

“We don’t really have any money to pay for renovations,” Mimi said.

Alan waved his hand. “Who said anything about money? I just want to solve the problem. I’d do it on my side of the wall, but I’ve just finished renovating.”

Mimi shook her head. “I don’t think the landlord would go for it.”

“You worry too much,” he said. “Give me your landlord’s number and I’ll sort it out with him, all right?”

“All right!” Link said. “That’s terrific, Albert, really!”

“All right, Mimi? Natalie?”

Natalie nodded enthusiastically, her shaved head whipping up and down on her thin neck precariously. Mimi glared at Natalie and Link. “I’ll ask Krishna,” she said.

“All right, then!” Alan said. “Let me measure up the wall and I’ll start shopping for supplies.” He produced a matte black, egg-shaped digital tape measure and started shining pinpoints of laser light on the wall, clicking the egg’s buttons when he had the corners tight. The Portuguese clerks at his favorite store had dissolved into hysterics when he’d proudly shown them the $300 gadget, but they were consistently impressed by the exacting CAD drawings of his projects that he generated with its output. Natalie and Link stared in fascination as he did his thing with more showmanship than was technically necessary, though Mimi made a point of rolling her eyes.

“Don’t go spending any money yet, cowboy,” she said. “I’ve still got to talk to Krishna, and you’ve still got to talk with the landlord.”

He fished in the breast pocket of his jean jacket and found a stub of pencil and a little steno pad, scribbled his cell phone number, and tore off the sheet. He passed the sheet, pad, and pencil to Mimi, who wrote out the landlord’s number and passed it back to him.

“Okay!” Alan said. “There you go. It’s been a real pleasure meeting you folks. I know we’re going to get along great. I’ll call your landlord right away and you call me once Krishna’s up, and I’ll see you tomorrow at ten a.m. to start construction, God willin’ and the crick don’t rise.”

Link stood and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Albert,” he said. “Really. Thanks for the muds, too.” Natalie gave him a bony hug, and Mimi gave him a limp handshake, and then he was out in the sunshine, head full of designs and logistics and plans.

The sun set at nine p.m. in a long summertime blaze. Alan sat down on the twig-chair on his front porch, pulled up the matching twig table, and set down a wine glass and the bottle of Niagara Chardonnay he’d brought up from the cellar. He poured out a glass and held it up to the light, admiring the new blister he’d gotten on his pinky finger while hauling two-by-fours and gyprock from his truck to his neighbors’ front room. Kids rode by on bikes and punks rode by on skateboards. Couples wandered through the park across the street, their murmurous conversations clear on the whispering breeze that rattled the leaves.

He hadn’t gotten any writing done, but that was all right. He had plenty of time, and once the soundwall was in, he’d be able to get a good night’s sleep and really focus down on the story.

A Chinese girl and a white boy walked down the sidewalk, talking intensely. They were all of six, and the boy had a Russian accent. The Market’s diversity always excited Alan. The boy looked a little like Alan’s brother Doug (Dan, David, Dearborne) had looked when he was that age.

Doug was the one he’d helped murder. All the brothers had helped with the murder, even Charlie (Clem, Carlos, Cory), the island, who’d opened a great fissure down his main fault line and closed it up over Doug’s corpse, ensuring that their parents would be none the wiser. Doug was a stubborn son-of-a-bitch, though, and his corpse had tunneled up over the next six years, built a raft from the bamboo and vines that grew in proliferation on Carlos’s west coast. He sailed the raft through treacherous seas for a year and a day, beached it on their father’s gentle slope, and presented himself to their mother. By that time, the corpse had decayed and frayed and worn away, so that he was little more than a torso and stumps, his tongue withered and stiff, but he pled his case to their mother, and she was so upset that her load overbalanced and they had to restart her. Their father was so angry that he quaked and caved in Billy (Bob, Brad, Benny)’s room, crushing all his tools and all his trophies.

But a lot of time had gone by and the brothers weren’t kids anymore. Alan was nineteen, ready to move to Toronto and start scouting for real estate. Only Doug still looked like a little boy, albeit a stumpy and desiccated one. He hollered and stamped until his fingerbones rattled on the floor and his tongue flew across the room and cracked on the wall. When his anger was spent, he crawled atop their mother and let her rock him into a long, long slumber.

Alan had left his father and his family the next morning, carrying a rucksack heavy with gold from under the mountain and walked down to the town, taking the same trail he’d walked every school day since he was five. He waved to the people that drove past him on the highway as he waited at the bus stop. He was the first son to leave home under his own power, and he’d been full of butterflies, but he had a half-dozen good books that he’d checked out of the Kapuskasing branch library to keep him occupied on the 14-hour journey, and before he knew it, the bus was pulling off the Gardiner Expressway by the SkyDome and into the midnight streets of Toronto, where the buildings stretched to the sky, where the blinking lights of the Yonge Street sleaze-strip receded into the distance like a landing strip for a horny UFO.

His liquid cash was tight, so he spent that night in the Rex Hotel, in the worst room in the house, right over the cymbal tree that the jazz-drummer below hammered on until nearly two a.m.. The bed was small and hard and smelled of bleach and must, the washbasin gurgled mysteriously and spat out moist sewage odors, and he’d read all his books, so he sat in the window and watched the drunks and the hipsters stagger down Queen Street and inhaled the smoky air and before he knew it, he’d nodded off in the chair with his heavy coat around him like a blanket.

The Chinese girl abruptly thumped her fist into the Russian boy’s ear. He clutched his head and howled, tears streaming down his face, while the Chinese girl ran off. Alan shook his head, got up off his chair, went inside for a cold washcloth and an ice pack, and came back out.

The Russian boy’s face was screwed up and blotchy and streaked with tears, and it made him look even more like Doug, who’d always been a crybaby. Alan couldn’t understand him, but he took a guess and knelt at his side and wiped the boy’s face, then put the ice pack in his little hand and pressed it to the side of his little head.

“Come on,” he said, taking the boy’s other hand. “Where do your parents live? I’ll take you home.”

Alan met Krishna the next morning at ten a.m., as Alan was running a table saw on the neighbors’ front lawn, sawing studs up to fit the second wall. Krishna came out of the house in a dirty dressing gown, his short hair matted with gel from the night before. He was tall and fit and muscular, his brown calves flashing through the vent of his housecoat. He was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and clutching a can of Coke.

Alan shut down the saw and shifted his goggles up to his forehead. “Good morning,” he said. “I’d stay on the porch if I were you, or maybe put on some shoes. There’re lots of nails and splinters around.”

Krishna, about to step off the porch, stepped back. “You must be Alvin,” he said.

“Yup,” Alan said, going up the stairs, sticking out his hand. “And you must be Krishna. You’re pretty good with a guitar, you know that?”

Krishna shook briefly, then snatched his hand back and rubbed at his stubble. “I know. You’re pretty fucking loud with a table saw.”

Alan looked sheepish. “Sorry about that. I wanted to get the heavy work done before it got too hot. Hope I’m not disturbing you too much—today’s the only sawing day. I’ll be hammering for the next day or two, then it’s all wet work—the loudest tool I’ll be using is sandpaper. Won’t take more than four days, tops, anyway, and we’ll be in good shape.”

Krishna gave him a long, considering look. “What are you, anyway?”

“I’m a writer—for now. Used to have a few shops.”

Krishna blew a plume of smoke off into the distance. “That’s not what I mean. What are you, Adam? Alan? Andrew? I’ve met people like you before. There’s something not right about you.”

Alan didn’t know what to say to that. This was bound to come up someday.

“Where are you from?”

“Up north. Near Kapuskasing,” he said. “A little town.”

“I don’t believe you,” Krishna said. “Are you an alien? A fairy? What?”

Alan shook his head. “Just about what I seem, I’m afraid. Just a guy.”

“Just about, huh?” he said.

“Just about.”

“There’s a lot of wiggle room in just about, Arthur. It’s a free country, but just the same, I don’t think I like you very much. Far as I’m concerned, you could get lost and never come back.”

“Sorry you feel that way, Krishna. I hope I’ll grow on you as time goes by.”

“I hope that you won’t have the chance to,” Krishna said, flicking the dog end of his cigarette toward the sidewalk.

Alan didn’t like or understand Krishna, but that was okay. He understood the others just fine, more or less. Natalie had taken to helping him out after her classes, mudding and taping the drywall, then sanding it down, priming, and painting it. Her brother Link came home from work sweaty and grimy with road dust, but he always grabbed a beer for Natalie and Alan after his shower, and they’d sit on the porch and kibbitz.

Mimi was less hospitable. She sulked in her room while Alan worked on the soundwall, coming downstairs only to fetch her breakfast and coldly ignoring him then, despite his cheerful greetings. Alan had to force himself not to stare after her as she walked into the kitchen, carrying yesterday’s dishes down from her room; then out again, with a sandwich on a fresh plate. Her curly hair bounced as she stomped back and forth, her soft, round buttocks flexing under her long-johns.

On the night that Alan and Natalie put the first coat of paint on the wall, Mimi came down in a little baby-doll dress, thigh-high striped tights, and chunky shoes, her face painted with swaths of glitter.

“You look wonderful, baby,” Natalie told her as she emerged onto the porch. “Going out?”

“Going to the club,” she said. “DJ None Of Your Fucking Business is spinning and Krishna’s going to get me in for free.”

“Dance music,” Link said disgustedly. Then, to Alan, “You know this stuff? It’s not playing music, it’s playing records. Snore.”

“Sounds interesting,” Alan said. “Do you have any of it I could listen to? A CD or some MP3s?”

“Oh, that’s not how you listen to this stuff,” Natalie said. “You have to go to a club and dance.”

“Really?” Alan said. “Do I have to take ecstasy, or is that optional?”

“It’s mandatory,” Mimi said, the first words she’d spoken to him all week. “Great fistfuls of E, and then you have to consume two pounds of candy necklaces at an after-hours orgy.”

“Not really,” Natalie said, sotto voce. “But you do have to dance. You should go with, uh, Mimi, to the club. DJ None Of Your Fucking Business is amazing.”

“I don’t think Mimi wants company,” Alan said.

“What makes you say that?” Mimi said, making a dare of it with hipshot body language. “Get changed and we’ll go together. You’ll have to pay to get in, though.”

Link and Natalie exchanged a raised eyebrow, but Alan was already headed for his place, fumbling for his keys. He bounded up the stairs, swiped a washcloth over his face, threw on a pair of old cargo pants and a faded Steel Pole Bathtub T-shirt he’d bought from a head-shop one day because he liked the words’ incongruity, though he’d never heard the band, added a faded jean jacket and a pair of high-tech sneakers, grabbed his phone, and bounded back down the stairs. He was convinced that Mimi would be long gone by the time he got back out front, but she was still there, the stripes in her stockings glowing in the slanting light.

“Retro chic,” she said, and laughed nastily. Natalie gave him a thumbs up and a smile that Alan uncharitably took for a simper, and felt guilty about it immediately afterward. He returned the thumbs up and then took off after Mimi, who’d already started down Augusta, headed for Queen Street.

“What’s the cover charge?” he said, once he’d caught up.

“Twenty bucks,” she said. “It’s an all-ages show, so they won’t be selling a lot of booze, so there’s a high cover.”

“How’s the play coming?”

“Fuck off about the play, okay?” she said, and spat on the sidewalk.

“All right, then,” he said. “I’m going to start writing my story tomorrow,” he said.

“Your story, huh?”

“Yup.”

“What’s that for?”

“What do you mean?” he asked playfully.

“Why are you writing a story?”

“Well, I have to! I’ve completely redone the house, built that soundwall—it’d be a shame not to write the story now.”

“You’re writing a story about your house?”

“No, in my house. I haven’t decided what the story’s about yet. That’ll be job one tomorrow.”

“You did all that work to have a place to write? Man, I thought I was into procrastination.”

He chuckled self-deprecatingly. “I guess you could look at it that way. I just wanted to have a nice, creative environment to work in. The story’s important to me, is all.”

“What are you going to do with it once you’re done? There aren’t a whole lot of places that publish short stories these days, you know.”

“Oh, I know it! I’d write a novel if I had the patience. But this isn’t for publication—yet. It’s going into a drawer to be published after I die.”

“What?”

“Like Emily Dickinson. Wrote thousands of poems, stuck ’em in a drawer, dropped dead. Someone else published ’em and she made it into the canon. I’m going to do the same.”

“That’s nuts—are you dying?”

“Nope. But I don’t want to put this off until I am. Could get hit by a bus, you know.”

“You’re a goddamned psycho. Krishna was right.”

“What does Krishna have against me?”

“I think we both know what that’s about,” she said.

“No, really, what did I ever do to him?”

Now they were on Queen Street, walking east in the early evening crowd, surrounded by summertime hipsters and wafting, appetizing smells from the bistros and Jamaican roti shops. She stopped abruptly and grabbed his shoulders and gave him a hard shake.

“You’re full of shit, Ad-man. I know it and you know it.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, honestly!”

“Fine, let’s do this.” She clamped her hand on his forearm and dragged him down a side street and turned down an alley. She stepped into a doorway and started unbuttoning her Alice-blue babydoll dress. Alan looked away, embarrassed, glad of the dark hiding his blush.

Once the dress was unbuttoned to her waist, she reached around behind her and unhooked her white underwire bra, which sagged forward under the weight of her heavy breasts. She turned around, treating him to a glimpse of the full curve of her breast under her arm, and shrugged the dress down around her waist.

She had two stubby, leathery wings growing out of the middle of her back, just above the shoulder blades. They sat flush against her back, and as Alan watched, they unfolded and flexed, flapped a few times, and settled back into their position, nested among the soft roll of flesh that descended from her neck.

Involuntarily, he peered forward, examining the wings, which were covered in fine downy brown hairs, and their bases, roped with muscle and surrounded by a mess of ugly scars.

“You… sewed… these on?” Alan said, aghast.

She turned around, her eyes bright with tears. Her breasts swung free of her unhooked bra. “No, you fucking idiot. I sawed them off. Four times a year. They just grow back. If I don’t cut them, they grow down to my ankles.”