We went to Washington Square Park to have our picnic, because it's where we knew to go. We sat in the far Northwest corner so none of the other booksellers would see us. Malachi the drug dealer noticed me, but he just nodded, and went about his business. We spread an army blanket I'd brought from the storage space, and laid out our bounty.

“So Rayna," I said. “You were talking about your family's house earlier. In Boro Park? I still don't know much about you, or where you come from."

“That's true." Her face clouded, and she didn't say anything else for a long while. I had pushed too hard, as I had with Roman and Timur. I kept asking questions, when I needed to just wait for answers to come. It had been so nice spending time with Rayna, and I'd ruined it. We chewed our food in silence. Squirrels and pigeons came too close. They were not afraid of people, and they wanted a bite of our food.

“I'll tell you a story," Rayna said, carefully. “From my family's neighborhood."

“Yeah?" I asked, wanting to encourage her without pushing.

“There was a boy who lived by me," said Rayna. “Who thought he was a pigeon."

“Really?" I couldn't tell if she was serious, or joking, or relating a local legend.

“Yes. He was the oldest son of a family who lived down the street from my family. The father ran a nice business selling hats. The Hat King, they called him. The family hoped that the son would grow up and take over the business, but then he somehow got it into his hatless head that he was a pigeon." I sat, enthralled. I didn't think Rayna was going to tell me anything, and now words were pouring forth. It was clear that she was repeating a story she had heard—perhaps even told—many times before. Still, I was happy that she was telling it to me.

“All day long he would hang out in the park with the other pigeons, naked, pecking around. There's these stone tables in the park there? With chessboards for tabletops? Where old men play, sometimes?" I nodded to show I understood.

“There are some in this park too," I said, pointing down to the park's Southwest corner. There were men who came and played there every day. They weren't a part of my scene—I didn't come to the West side of the park very often—but they were part of the park life, just like the drug dealers, the street musicians, or us booksellers. Washington Square chess was not recreational. These chess hustlers played all takers, for two or three dollars a game. Al was a pretty good chess player. I wondered if he ever played those guys. He wouldn't play them unless he knew he'd win.

“Yes, like that. So, he'd go around and around the bases of the tables, all day long. He would eat chips that children dropped on the ground. It was very embarrassing to his family. In Boro Park, everyone is always watching everyone else. Judging. His siblings were able to get him back inside at night, but only by shooing him in with a broom. He'd coo at his mother—who he'd always loved—and eat the challah she baked, so long as she ripped it into little pieces and tossed them under the table.

“The Hat King and his wife tried everything. They brought in the boy's old friends from Yeshiva to visit, but he didn't seem to recognize them. They brought in rabbis, gypsy hypnotists, doctors with theories. What do you call them? Analysts? But none of them could convince him. He wouldn't respond but with a peck and a flapping of his wings. Arms." Rayna paused to sip her wine. A park pigeon cocked his head, as if waiting for Rayna to resume her story.

“What could the family do?...