Taylor stepped back outside, muttering things about Longfellow, Eric’s misconstrued fetish for poetry, and the job in general. It had started to rain, the dedicated, shearing type the imitated blankets both in transit and what it landed on. He paused at the alley’s mouth to glance inside the bag. There was the deceptive Walkman radio, a coriander rangoon wrapped in unimaginative wax paper, and a matchbook, the advertisement kind. He removed the matches and the rangoon, slipping the rest into a pocket.
The rangoon was soggy but still good, just inimical to his stomach after the diner food. As for the matches, he knew instinctively they were his directions for the drop off, a place downtown.
First matchbook instructions, then a matchbook to be a map. Was there a god?
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