Almost midnight, I was on Houston heading east, splashing through every puddle I came across, that’s what rainboots are made for. When I crossed Thompson all I could see from under my umbrella pulled down low was the bottom half of a yellow rubber man squelching into the street. On Broadway the cars idling at the light were black beasts with wicked electric eyes, reflected in a swamp of shiny tar.

It is exactly that kind of rainy night when wisps of smoke and vapor escaping from manhole covers write secret curling messages in the damp air, when robot girls huddle under curved streetlamps for warmth.