“I don’t know,” Tony said moodily, walking slowly back to his grill to pick up his spatula.

The phoce, now, seemed to have fallen deeper into his beer-induced trance; he seemed asleep, in fact, no longer seeing anything or at least no longer conscious of the people around him or attempting to communicate his vision– or whatever it was—to them. The séance was over.

Well, you never know, Stuart said to himself. I wonder what Fergesson would say to this; I wonder if he’d want somebody who’s not only physically crippled but an epileptic or whatever working for him. I wonder if I should or shouldn’t mention this to him when I get back to the store. If he hears he’ll probably fire Hoppy right on the spot; I wouldn’t blame him. So maybe I better not say anything, he decided.

The phoce’s eyes opened. In a weak voice he said, “Stuart.”

“What do you want?” Stuart answered.

“I—” The phoce sounded frail, almost ill, as if the experience had been too much for his weak body. “Listen, I wonder…” He drew himself up, then rolled his cart clowly over to Stuart’s booth. In a low voice he said, “I wonder, could you push me back to the store? Not right now but when you’re through eating. I’d really appreciate it.”

“Why?” Stuart said. “Can’t you do it?”

“I don’t feel good,” the phoce said.

Stuart nodded. “Okay. When I’m finished eating.”

“Thanks,” the phoce said.

Ignoring him stonily, Stuart continued eating. I wish it wasn’t obvious I know him, he thought to himself. I wish he’d wheel off and wait somewhere else. But the phoce had sat down, rubbing his forehead with the left extensor, looking too spent to move away again, even to his place at the other end of the coffee shop.

Later, as Stuart pushed the phoce in his cart back up the sidewalk toward Modern TV, the phoce said in a low voice,

“It’s a big responsibility, to see beyond.”