Then, as if on cue, the voices start.

Muffled and distant they talk about Slammy’s. They tell me how good it is. They implore me to go there to eat. I worry I am going crazy. I become afraid to leave my apartment. As the lightbulbs burn out one by one, rather than buy replacements, I switch the dead ones out so there’s always a working one above my bed, which is where I now spend all my time, like Proust. When the final bulb dies, I move to my tiny back porch, which butts up against the tenement next door. The light from my neighbor’s window is the only light bright enough for me to read by. The Slammy’s voice is getting louder: