Conrad Overion has seen people reading his books everywhere. A chiropractor's waiting room in North Platte, Nebraska; the funicular between Obstfelderschmiede and Lichtenhain; several North American airports. Two women who were both holding Overion titles on a New York subway (the 6, just north of Spring Street) were having a heated discussion about the detached retina of the boyfriend or husband of one of them. This business about the detached retina was evidently a source of considerable friction between them, and from what Conrad could make out one blamed this unfortunate state of affairs, this ophthalmological woe, on some action or inaction of the other. Apparently blame had been assigned and these two women were going over old ground, one railing anew about the detached retina and the other appalled, simply appalled, that once again the detached retina was being thrown in her face, as it were, that clearly she would never be allowed to forget the detached retina, how perfectly clear it was that the detached retina would follow her around forever, plaguing her with guilt, despite the fact that the retina was successfully reattached and vision completely restored, and that furthermore all this had happened ages ago. And now he's got a detached retina, one seethed to the other, waving around a trade paperback copy of The Sublime Disregard of Mr. Hypotenuse by Conrad Overion, and you just go on your merry way. He doesn't have a detached retina, the other countered impatiently, gripping a copy of The Prevailing Winds, he had a detached retina and now he's got an attached retina, and maybe some day you will stop trotting out this hoary subject of the detached retina every time we have a simple disagreement. Conrad Overion wondered how many of his books had been used as handy props in arguments and banal domestic disputes, and how many had been gestured with while discussing injuries to the human eye.