He looks again at the watch and smiles a cracked-lip smile. This is a real watch, the old-fashioned kind that requires winding and loses a minute every hour. He doesn’t mind losing a minute every hour.

I’m used to missing a day or two every week, he thinks, barely remembering that he used to say witty things like that more often.

It’s 7:42.

He takes a swig from the dark brown bottle, careful not to let drip any of the priceless red nectar. His wrist implant flashes yellow. The sub-dermal message lights pulse like a choreographed chorus line of fireflies.

“Over legal limit. Unsafe to drive,” it reads.

He used to laugh when he read that. He hasn’t owned a car in seven years.

The sleeping bag is bundled up and stuffed in the corner against an abutment. He doesn’t sleep in it. Not since the time he was surprised by a gang of drunk college students back in ’16. The word “irony” taps on his mind, tries to open a long-sealed door to understanding, and fails.

He takes another drink.

He has a scar from one of the thrown bottles. It looks like a second eyebrow. An angry red eyebrow that steals attention from his real, white brows and gives curious passersby a reason not to look him in the eyes. He hasn’t seen the scar himself for days. They closed the suburban shelter a week ago last Friday. It’s already a pile of rubble and soon will be an EcoTower for rich people and their hydroponic vegetable gardens and their electric scooters.

He doesn’t want to move back downtown. He likes the suburbs. Except when drunk college students throw beer bottles at him. Was it just that one time?

The suburban homeless shelter had a big bathroom. With a cracked, cloudy mirror. The best kind of mirror for people who don’t want to see themselves too clearly. And three showers. One had a shower curtain.

He’ll wash in the river again if he has to. And in the bathroom of the Mega-Wal-Mart when Betty’s working as greeter. Thursdays. Betty works Thursdays and doesn’t chase him away.

“Tomorrow is Thursday,” he says. He is momentarily frightened by the sound of his voice. It is hoarse, a smoker’s voice. He hasn’t smoked for three years. But he sure could use a cigarette right now.

To celebrate.

He has a watch. A good one. He found it in a dumpster.

And he saw his daughter. Three days ago. Or was it last month?

She was in a coffee shop, sitting at a table by the window next to a man who was not her husband. He wanted to tap on the glass, let her know he was still alive. But he didn’t want to embarrass her. She wouldn’t have recognized him, anyway. The strange man who wasn’t her husband had his hand on her leg. She had her hand on his. They were both smiling the kind of smile that only secret lovers share.

He was married once. That’s when he first saw that smile. His wife wore it sometimes when she came home late from work. But he never cheated on her. Not once. Except with alcohol. Yeah, that still counts, he thinks.

He screws the cap back on the bottle and sets it carefully against the wall. He lies back, resting his head on the sleeping bag. It makes a comfortable pillow. The wrist implant continues to flash, pulsing a familiar nightlight.

The moon is bright. Something catches his eye off in the distance. He wonders at first if it’s another jumper. But it’s just a piece of paper that has blown off the bridge. He watches it float in the air like a weightless pendulum, back and forth in unhurried rhythm.

He smiles a cracked smile. His daughter gave him a watch once. As a joke. He was half an hour late for her wedding rehearsal dinner. Everyone laughed when he opened the box.

He hasn’t laughed in months.

He looks at the watch and wonders if it’s running fast.