Four nights a week he sits in the dismal concierge cage and fills postcards to Sydney; a junk store haul of faded linen scenes showing The Palisades, The Chrysler, Cleo’s Needle, and woodsy upstate hamlets he’ll never visit, won’t get north of the city save for the once, taking the Amtrak to Niagara in the new year: winter woods flanking the rail lines all a naked, brittle magenta, the Hudson frozen solid at its banks with great shards of ice heaped up in violent confection, while he swallows bad coffee and nurses his heart like a busted fist.