“At the Canal Saint-Martin . . .” Leon holds his hand up, attempting to cut off Trevon from saying another word. The pigeons swarm in, alighting on the stale popcorn Leon has scattered on the circular brick courtyard that sits in the middle of the Skylight Towers. There’s not a skylight in any of the 240 apartments in the towers. Leon thinks the towers were built, or at least named, based on a lie. He hates lies and liars and he feels that he’s surrounded by both all the time. The pigeons are a distraction from that, from everything. Sitting on the black wrought iron bench designed with peacocks twisted in unnatural positions, he watches the pigeons, looking for those that look sick. He’d like to catch a sick one, snap its neck, and send it on to eternal peace, forever free of illness and the need to scavenge for…
