He feels like he's gonna be struck by lightning, he tells me.

He just knows it's gonna happen. It's raining out and he went walking and he swears he saw seven bolts of the stuff hit the ground. I don't know if he's telling the truth but I'm inclined to believe him. We're sitting in my office - he's only truly safe when he's inside, and where better than his lawyer's house. Am I his lawyer yet? He swears it's like he's being followed, though he knows that's absurd to say out loud. His eyes don't stay locked to mine long enough to realize the color in this lighting. I can't believe the lightbulbs in this room have lasted so long. I don't remember the last time I changed them but probably at least five months.

It's hard to be the lawyer to somebody so paranoid. It's contagious. I think, could he be lying to me?, but I guess that's not for me to figure out. And besides, he's right that it's been raining an awful lot. His hair is wet, not a bad touch.

But he wants to sue the sky. I admit to him, I've never taken on a case like this before. I'm not even sure where to begin. What exactly are the damages he's looking to get? He makes it clear, two million dollars in damages and a restraining order. I realize I should have preferred to ask for the other specifics of his case before pay, my mother would think it very garish of me to jump straight into pay, if I'm using that word correctly I'm not sure. Bawdy, maybe? My grandmother would know were she with us, she knew a lot of words. Would this case even be worth a trip to the law library? There's no precedent for this. I guess that woman who tried to marry Mt. Etna back in the nineties, she would be closest, but they put her in jail.

I tell him I'm not sure of a judge that would even deem the case worthy of taking it on, and the thing about precedent. We'd have to create a big media frenzy first to gain public support, he seems excited at this notion. I ask if he's ever been struck by lightning, or if he has any proof that the sky would intentionally want him struck. I tell him my rate is sixty percent of any prize money awarded. My mother would shoot me dead if she heard I called it prize money. I honestly don't think I'm worth anything above forty-five percent, but I thought maybe I would scare him off with a highball offer. Unfortunately, he accepted my terms.