1923

It’s still raining.  It rained all night.  In the morning, there had been a break, accompanied by a scurry of activity.  A man in an enormous yellow raincoat, looking like a big duck, stomped around in puddles, a line of ducklings scurrying after him with their clipboards and their viewfinders.  A door opened on a truck revealing a dozen ape-suits.  A handsome face appeared in the window of a trailer.  Then the rain pounded again and everyone disappeared.

He’s shaking.  The baby has his sweater and his coat.  And most of the sheets from the clean bin of the laundry truck.  But the rain is coming down so hard that he can wash some diapers by simply holding them out the window.  He counts that as a miracle.  The smell is almost too much.

It’s strange, all this luck.  He was crazy to take the baby, crazy to steal this truck.  He was thinking crazy when he drove into the woods – he just wanted to get away from the police.

But he was lucky to find this camp.  Lucky to have a place to hide.  All kinds of luck piling up.  Or are they miracles.

Either way, he’s not in control.

A crack on the glass.  “Some storm” quacks the baby duck, passing in a bag.  “I’ll be back at dinner time.” He opens the bag and unwraps the contents.  A sandwich.  An apple.

A bottle of milk.  Another miracle.

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