Link to publisher version (URL)
Arthur’s mother spent most of her days waiting near the dark bathtub. The basement flat was always in shadows, even with its small windows at the ceiling that met the footpath outside. All evening she listened to the traffic and watched feet streaking past the windows, and with every car horn she thought of Arthur. Arthur! she’d yell, Arthur? Are you here yet? and she would run to check the tub as the landlord pounded on the ceiling.