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They gave up and sewed pockets into Isaac’s pajamas after he managed the fire escape in his sleep; now at least he has a key and a bus pass when he wakes two miles from home. Spare change, too, not that pay phones exist anymore.

He undertakes strange missions at the behest of dreams. He once bought a single stick of gum from a nice drug dealer, once sought out a toll booth operator to ask “why else ginger the multiple recursion tan?” Jungian voyages. Isaac’s feet are tough, his rest exhausting, but he always wakes with a sense of accomplishment.