★ The river course was filled with fog, spilling over, covering the middle stories of our old apartment tower there. Fog had swallowed the space shuttle. Down behind the Trump buildings, two robins were pecking at the wet, moss-green turf. Robins, the truth is, indicate no particular season at all. The sun fought its way clear of clouds and fog and buildings in the east, then fell back. The puddles were sooty-looking. Smells caught and carried on the mild and damp air: tailpipe, kitchen, something like hot wax. Gasoline.