Fiction | December 01, 2003

This story is not currently available online.

Ofelio Campos stood at the edge of the eleventh sloor, dreaming of beds. He thought of showroom floors and king-sized mattresses. He thought of sultanish waterbeds spotted like leopards. He thought of pillows. He thought of freshly washed sheets, crips from the dryer, of a comforter he once slept under in a Las Vegas motel, folding him in like the wings of a bird.

If you are a student, faculty member, or staff member at an institution whose library subscribes to Project Muse, you can read this piece and the full archives of the Missouri Review for free. Check this list to see if your library is a Project Muse subscriber.