As I write this down, I'm astonished all over again—but it's true. The poet's house is wonderful, the neighborhood is Arcadian, and the rent is comparable to what we would have paid for the stinky-rug place. And yes, James Kennedy in California—a heroic personage I may never meet—has paid our entire rent in advance. The check arrived by FedEx and has already cleared.
At this rate, my faith in God may soon be resurrected. The other day, following hard on these miraculous events, my wife got a call on her cell phone: FEMA! She shakily handed me the Samsung.
"Mr. Bailey, are you homeless?" a nice woman asked. "Because if so, we'd like to offer you a trailer."
A trailer seemed a good augury. Had there been no James Kennedy, no kindly poet living in the Duck Pond, still we'd be provided for, after a fashion, like the lilies of the field and the fowl of the air.
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