Only a few signs of mayhem in the building. Mark Spitz and the rest of Omega Unit were half done with 135 Duane Street, chugging down from the roof at a productive clip. He was fifteen floors up, in the heart of Zone One, and shapes trudged like slaves higher and higher into midtown. The towers emerged out of smudged charcoal, a collection of figments and notions of things. He dropped his pack, switched off the torch in his helmet, and pushed his forehead to the glass as if he were at his uncle's, rearranging the architecture into a message. A cheerful thought, in its way, given the catastrophe. It had been a humdrum couple of days, reaffirming his belief in reincarnation: everything was so boring that this could not be the first time he'd experienced it.
Hard to believe that reconstruction had progressed so far that clock-watching had returned, the slacker's code, the concept of weekend. This was the fourth day of rain, Friday afternoon, and a conditioned part of him submitted to end-of-the-week lassitude, even if Fridays had lost their meaning.
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