At seven in the morning, an Edward Hopper white light slashed the facade of the building, and a legless man in a wheelchair sat before the employee entrance, selling yellow number-two Ticonderoga pencils. He was always there, friendly, and I was happy to see him. I bought a pencil every day.

I liked the store in the early morning, the escalators rumbling up and down for no one, the empty selling floor, the mannequins posed to fool you, threatening to come to life. Then up the odd staircase. Past the glass box. Into the gloom of the attic.

Weeks went by. Months. I reached my nine-month anniversary. Two hundred and seventy pencils in a box on the floor.