Fiction | October 21, 2016

After two pitchers of IPA, my friend, Old Rob, would say things like, “The existence of the ‘self’ is so highly unlikely that it makes any debate over the existence of the ‘soul’ absolutely fucking preposterous.” This was before Old Rob fell off the climbing wall at our rock gym. As a founding member, he often let himself in after hours to free climb, which was against every rule in the rule book he’d helped to write.

That was Old Rob.

The day porter found him in the morning.

He was spread-eagled, soaked in his own puddles.

I found out about it on Twitter.

This story is not currently available online.

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.