Shortly before the sky opened up on Sunday afternoon, I saw a friend in the fiction stacks at the Carnegie Library. He was scribbling notes in the margins of a sheet of pink paper.
“What are you working on?” I asked.
“Well,” he said. “This guy told me he made fifty-two words using the letters in HUMONGOUS. I thought I could beat that.” He paused. “But now I don’t think I can.”
I smiled and stared at him for a moment.
“Hey what do you want?” he said. “It’s a Sunday.”
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