A black crow swoops onto the open window ledge, and yearning gushes from deep within me. I tamp down the emotion swifter than the crow can deliver its charge: a rolled parchment that bangs against the bookshelves as it flips toward the floor. The crow musses its feathers and launches into the air, off to retrieve its next assignment. Soon, someone else will receive fresh misery.

A thin guy wearing a Comic-Con hat stands outside the screen door of my RV.

“Sorry to bother you. Is it okay to park here overnight?” He speaks in an accent I can’t quite place.

I sip morning coffee at a Starbucks I’m at every Saturday and pretend to read The New York Times. I skim headlines, wonder how wonderful it’d be if I actually read the articles.

I look up and see Bob. I haven’t seen Bob in three years, not since I left my last job. I’m not thrilled to see him, but not unhappy either.

The DMV Statements folder, feeling cornered and bent out of shape, continued screaming at the bulging 2016 Tax Return, whose fat ass was jabbing into DMV’s pale-yellow, elegant edges, smashing the slight, thin folder into the back wall of the second drawer inside the darkened, musty file cabinet.

Drogon flew and flew.

What was wrong with all these garbage people, he thought. Drogon could totally think things like this because he was a completely sentient being.