e cuts are relatively shallow, certainly less
serious than they were in my runamuck imagination, which had vivid slashes of
white bone visible through the divided skin. I cautiously pick out the larger
grit and gravel and turn my attention spinewards.

I have done a number on my back, that much is certain. My old friends, the
sacroiliac joints, feel as tight as drumheads, and they creak ominously when I
shift to a sitting position with my back propped up on the chimney's upended
butt, the aluminum skirting cool as a kiss on my skin. They're only just
starting to twinge, a hint of the agonies to come.

My jaw, though, is pretty bad. My whole face feels swollen, and if I open my
mouth the blood starts anew.

You know, on sober reflection, I believe that coming up to the roof was a really
bad idea.

I use the chimney to lever myself upright again, and circle it to see exactly
what kind of damage I've done. There's a neat circular hole in the roof where
the chimney used to be, gusting warm air into my face as I peer into its depths.
The hole is the mouth of a piece of shiny metal conduit about the circumference
of a basketball hoop. When I put my head into it, I hear the white noise of a
fan, somewhere below in the building's attic. I toss some gravel down the
conduit and listen to the report as it *ping*s off the fan blades down below.
That's a good, loud sound, and one that is certain to echo through the building.

I rain gravel down the exhaust tube by the handful, getting into a mindless,
shuffling rhythm, wearing the sides of my hands raw and red as I scrape the
pebbles up into handy piles. Soon I am shuffling afield of the fallen chimney,
one hand on my lumbar, crouched over like a chimp, knees splayed in an effort to
shift stress away from my grooved calves.

I'm really beating the shit out of that poor fan, I can tell. The
shooting-gallery rattle of the gravel ricocheting off the blades is dulling now,
sometimes followed by secondary rattles as the pebbles bounce back into the
blades. Not sure what I'll do if the fan gives out before someone notices me up
here.

It's not an issue, as it turns out. The heavy fire door beyond the chimney
swings open abruptly. A hospital maintenance gal in coveralls, roly-poly and
draped with tool belts and bandoliers. She's red-faced from the trek up the
stairs, and it gives her the aspect of a fairy tale baker or candy-seller. She
reinforces this impression by putting her plump