Over lunchtime, Lloyd heard God’s voice. It said, “Buy me a sandwich.”

Had it been out loud or in just in his head, Lloyd wondered? So he asked, “God?” First timidly as a thought, then with his voice between cupped hands.

As a child, Momma wanted a pony. She often drew pictures, quite strong illustrations, in fact, of ponies. She paid ample attention especially to their manes and how sunlight danced upon them.

He pulled his scarf up to his eyes, trying to breathe only through his nose. It was no good; he had to open his mouth briefly and let in the cold air; it lacerated his throat and he thought he was going to have an asthma attack. He gripped his inhaler in his right hand, but immediately remembered the instructions that said the medication should be kept at a temperature of up to 25 degrees Celsius, so he opened his fist and let the inhaler fall to the bottom of the pocket. However, the temperature outside must have been below the lower limit, which at that moment he couldn’t remember exactly, perhaps . . . what if he . . .

No, he said to himself, what will they say if I loiter in front of my own door?

“Cayenne pepper? That’s a bulimic’s diet.” I say, tracing my name into the condensation on the car window.

“You’re going to be shitting your brains out.”

The finger is now a hand, soft, and perfectly articulated. I am very worried about it. As I had feared, it is making my job increasingly difficult. I can no longer wear a button-down in the office. The thin fabric would clearly give away the presence of the hand. I have tried folding the hand down and taping it but this increases the discomfort.

I am reasonably sure that it is a violation of company policy to have a hand protruding from my chest. I have taken to wearing a heavy sweater at all times.

Today my boss tells me that wearing a sweater in the office is a violation of company policy.