A late stop into an all-night supermarket on the North Side. Inside, merchandise is scattered through the aisles ready to be stocked. A half-dozen people sit in the Starbucks cafe, which is closed, just talking or with laptops open using the wireless connection. I check out with my juice, half and half, and ice cream.
Outside, voices carry from the far end of the parking lot. A guy out there is holding a cricket bat. He tosses a white ball into the air and hits a high, high fly ball–what the non-cricket world calls a fungo–to a couple guys standing under the lights about 30 or 40 yards away. One catches the ball barehanded, and tosses it back to the batter, who takes it and whacks another high fly into the parking-lot night.