"Don't come any nearer," he said. His voice was like bad brakes.
So I leaned against the sill.
He saw, quicker than I, that his ankles were in range of a dive. He pulled them up, pivoted, and stretched out on the top of the wall. It was cement—about a foot wide. And baking hot. He rocked and wriggled for a minute, took off his coat, folded it, and stuffed it under himself. While doing that, he almost lost his balance. He caught a fingerhold on the inside edge of the concrete, which stuck out over the bricks a half or three-quarters of an inch.
"Paul," I said, "for God's sake, come in."
"I like it here."
"Okay."
"I want to think."
"Help yourself."
"You wouldn't understand."