From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
The humid morning air feels heavy as wool, and my palms sweat against the coarse linen of my trousers while I clutch this morning’s paper. Blimey, the dread pools in my stomach reading that Mr. Roosevelt acts quickly, ordering the Surgeon General to do everything in his power because Louisiana asks the nation to fight yellow fever. I try to distract myself by fiddling with the rigid, painted lead pieces of the Land’s Lord game, but the metallic tang on my fingers only reminds me of the five cents I just bled for a single loaf of bread. Everything is becoming too dear, and the jittery rhythm of an Oldsmobile rattling down the cobblestones outside makes me fear the very air is turning sour.