before she curled up to sleep on the bench, the woman lit a match and burned a small piece of paper she had rolled up. it was a prayer. she wore an old sweatshirt with a ruffled dickey on it, the sort of thing a grandnephew might give for Christmas. people come to the river all the time and burn little prayers. sometimes, in the absence of fire, they leave them on a bench or the wall in case God walks by. the entire wharf is an altar and we are all offered up.