“It must be the southern air,” Amy says when Lamb tells her everything is dead.

She stands on the balcony holding a cereal bowl of water. The bowl looks heavy. She holds it with her hands. Looks uncomfortable. Since Amy’s grandmother died, she has spent more time watering plants. Lamb looks at the plants. Stares. Amy’s grandmother was a gardener, apparently. She had a large garden with every imaginable species: tulips, daffodils, roses. Colors and fragrances. Amy’s plants are brown and moldy. Dried-out. Lifeless. She is not a gardener. She will never be the woman her grandmother once was. She knows this and has said so. She waters the plants anyways. Humidity forms sweat across her hair line.

“What?” Amy says without looking up.

“Nothing,” Lamb says. He rolls up the sleeves of his Jay Reatard t-shirt. Reclines in his lounge chair. Perspiration saturates the cotton beneath his nipples. He yawns. Amy’s radio is on his lap. He plays with it. Tries to make it work. Looks at Amy. Rubs his eyes. Looks down at the alley. Chews his cuticle. There are lines and lines of balconies belonging to people he doesn’t know. Neighbors, he thinks. He admires their plants, wind chimes, and Webber grills. Lamb wishes he had a Webber grill. He feels inadequate not owning one. He sets the radio down. He will buy a Webber grill. He will grill things. He will invite neighbors over and they will grill things together.

A door opens and closes behind him. Donny is in the kitchen.

“Donny,” Lamb says. Opting for a minimal greeting, he turns in his chair and looks inside.

Donny sees Lamb and says, “Did you get a haircut?”

“Rita,” Lamb says and nods, “The Dominican.” He runs his fingers across his scalp several times. He points at Amy holding a cereal bowl full of water. Water drizzles off the bottom of the bowl and splashes on the floor. It pools around a smashed cigarette butt. The butt begins to float. Lamb watches it. The butt is a cigarette boat. The boat runs drugs from Dominica to the Florida Keys. Heroin. Cocaine. Marijuana. The Coast Guard will never catch this boat. Rita the Hairdresser’s relatives own and operate this boat. Donny walks up to Amy and takes her cereal bowl away.

“What?” Amy says. She wipes her hands against her chest, moving them up and down the sides of her breasts. She contorts her face. Blinks. Makes an exhausted expression. Blinks again.

“Like this,” Donny says. He angles the bowl over a pot of dead something. He spills. Water splashes onto the floor and his feet. The balcony is cramped with the three of them and they all get wet. The cigarette boat capsizes. Rita’s relatives drown. Others will replace them.

“Like that, huh?” Amy says. She laughs. She looks at Lamb. Lamb does not move.

“Did anyone check the mail today?” Donny says. “I’m waiting for something to come.”

“What something?” Lamb says.

“Something,” Donny says.

“Who from?” Amy says.

“That something would be my, like, allowance,” Donny says. “And the who would be from, um, my Uncle Sam. I guess.”

Donny doesn’t say anything for a while then says, “I don’t know.”

Amy laughs. “Are you on welfare?”

Lamb is listening. He wishes he was on welfare. He wishes he had a real Uncle Sam somewhere sending him a monthly allowance. If this Uncle Sam passed away, he would leave Lamb a large inheritance. Lamb could live comfortably for the rest of his days on earth. He smiles.

“It’s called unemployment,” Donny says. Almost proudly. He stops. He looks around, appearing vaguely disappointed in himself.

“Didn’t you have a job interview today?” Lamb says. “Or something.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Donny says. He massages his shoulder blade. Makes a strange face. Sighs. His expression conveys the fact that life is not fair.

“I wish I was unemployed,” Amy says.

“No, you don’t,” Donny says.