wizard-of-the-pigeons

He dressed hastily. Carrying his shoes, he slipped into the next room. He
longed to shut the connecting door to his den, but knew he had to leave it ajar so
the pigeons could come and go. The window in this room was intact but heavily
streaked with pigeon droppings. It was also jammed open about six inches from
the bottom. Through this opening the cats and pigeons came and went. Wizard
slid it silently wider to permit his own departure. Fortune finally pitied him on
this miserable day. The alley below was clear. He stepped out onto the fire
escape, easing the window down to its usual stuck position.
He padded lightly down the fire escape, moving almost as silently as the cats
did. At the bottom, there was a drop. He landed lightly on the old red bricks that
paved his alley. As he stepped into his shoes he remembered, too late, that he
had brought no change with him. True, his magic prohibited him from carrying
more than a dollar’s worth of change at any time, but be could at least have
started the day with enough coins for coffee. Once he had found a fifty-dollar
bill pinned inside the sleeve of a Goodwill coat. He had not squandered it, but
had parceled it out, fifty-seven or sixty-two cents at a time, for coffee. He only
drew from his hoard in gravest need. Today, he had surpassed gravest need. His
battle last night had drained his power to the dregs. He needed coffee and
warmth and a wash with hot water and taps that stayed turned on. He was not
ready for this day. Survival would be that much tougher.
But not impossible. Some days he flowed with his power.
Today the current of the magic roared against him, and he was hard pressed
to cling to a rock in the rapids. But he would survive, like a one-legged pigeon,
by keeping a new balance.
This was his city; it would feed him and shelter him and lead him to Cassie.
The rock in the current.
WIZARD LEFT HIS ALLEY, hit Jackson Street and tried to put some
purpose in his lagging stride; First of all, he had to stop looking like an urban
blight resident. There was a public restroom near the fire station, only a block
and a half away now.
But he dreaded its stainless steel walls and fixtures and the bizarre patrons it
attracted. Instead he steered toward the Amtrak passenger station on Third and
Jackson. Its tall tower and severe clock face reared up above the other buildings
like a red brick daffodil. It had been months since he had last been there. It was