A life in polystyrene. Small, really. Compact enough to carry. Though, to be fair, it takes me both hands. And it aches me, what with my bad back and all.
So this is Wally now. A box of ashes—the remains of his body; twenty-two assorted notebooks—the remains of his soul; and a mysterious cardboard box. Which of these holds the real Wally?
The ashes I can tip in the garden. Scattering, they call it. For now, I flip through the notebooks. There might be a novel in them. Or passwords for a secret Swiss bank account.
I open the box. I shouldn’t have. Wally’s last little joke.