Dawn

          The morning dawned clear and beautiful. The leaves outside seemed to dance with the wind, acting as if they were on center stage, while the greening of the world began to fade to shades of crimson and gold.

            Harold walked down the stairs, dressed in a business suit. Miles, he had moved to his favorite hidey hole, perched next to his autographed copy of “Season of the Snake,” washed his face with his packrat hands.

            “Good morning, Miles,” Harold said.

            “Is it a good morning, Harold?”

            Harold scratched the top of his head. His hair, fully materialized, was a receding matt of gray. He removed two bits of toilet paper stuck to his chin, relishing the feel of a freshly shaved chin.

            “Miles, do I look around 58? I need to look like I would look if I had, well, you know, lived. We have a lot of work to do, and not much time to do it in.”

            Miles, surprised by the serious tone Harold utilized, sat up tall and straight. “Yes, Harold, you look splendid and age appropriate.”

            Harold smiled, which exposed two dimples and laugh lines that circled his mouth. Miles thought that at one time, Harold would have been considered a very handsome man.

            “Did you cut yourself shaving,” Miles asked.

            Harold laughed, a low rumble that reminded Miles of the sound Miss Patches made when she found a totally excellent clump of grass.

            “I haven’t shaved for a long time, Miles. I’m surprised I didn’t cut my head off.”

            Miles laughed, only because he didn’t want to cry. Oh, he thought, the world of humans. What would I do without them?