Plod.

The man walked in the right way. His grey eyebrows pointed straight ahead and his tartan slippers scuffed a line down the middle of the moss-green carpet. With every step he saw a different face because every step took a minute.

Plod.

It did not matter how many people walked against him, they did not collide with him. They all looked at the ground and veered off. No one with his eyes on the horizon runs into someone and he is never run into.

Plod.

The plot was shoved against an apartment block, but it was his by law. It had a fold-out chair, a watering can, a dogwood and a gravestone. The gravestone had a name on it and space for one more. The man put his stone tortoise on the grave and sat in the chair.

He did not have to wait. He died.

And so it is for all followers of the God of Latecoming. Things take as long as they need to and no longer.