High-Rise with a View of the Clouds
Book 1, from the first chapter
Sometimes Charlie imagined the high-rise was a giant tower in the middle of the desert. A lonely watchtower where cowboys kept lookout for bandits passing by. Then he wasn’t just an ordinary boy anymore. Then he was Cowboy Charlie, guardian of the prairie—braver than a puma, faster than the wind, with a stare that could send shivers down any outlaw’s spine.
In reality, though, the high-rise was just gray. Old, ugly, and in the hallways it smelled of stale cigarette smoke, sour cleaning fluid, and sometimes wet dog. Fourteen stories it reached into the sky, like a huge finger of concrete shaking its fist at the clouds.
Charlie often sat on the wide windowsill in the kitchen. It was his secret favorite spot. While the radio hummed softly in the background, he gazed out—and into his imagination.
Outside, clouds drifted past, but in Charlie’s mind they became the dust stirred up by a galloping herd of horses. Cars turned into stagecoaches. Cranes became the silhouettes of faraway canyons. The street below was a wide prairie.
He had built a pony out of cardboard. It wasn’t very pretty—but to Charlie, it was the fastest pony west of the kitchen counter.