In a blind alley in Detroit there are three doors. One leads to the storeroom of a dive bar, the smell (and slop) of pickles and beer creeping out onto the stoop. One is the rear door of a low-rent apartment block, and echoes of domestic disputes and shady deals. The last is outlined in chalk — white and sketchy on the blacktop underfoot. Its handle is a mere circle, shaded roughly. Every week, Mrs Wolverton of apartment 3A washes it away, but by the next morning it has always returned. Rising up from far below, on the edge of hearing, strange sounds can be heard. Even Mrs Wolverton, would she condescend to put her ear to the filth and grime of the pavement, could have heard the raucous calls of a jungle at night, the cheers of Carnaval in full swing, or the ghostly lament of lonely whale song.