Chicago lives on and beneath the surface of prehistoric Lake Algonquin. During heavy rains, water inundates the deep tunnel system in engineers’ futile attempt to sequester it. Mostly, the water pools on the asphalt, erupting into sewer geysers, bathing rats in oil and brine. Last weekend, I rented a Divvy bike and pedaled through my old city of easy plains, down Milwaukee Avenue, through the Loop, up the lakefront, past the Lincoln Park Zoo, then back past the Hideout where I served an unofficial residency for much of my thirties. My pit bull Stan was grandfathered through the dog ban. I toured the pretty places until it the rains kicked up and it was time to turn in the bike. Every storm in the city is a biblical flood, the water rising up from the firmament, meeting the clouds, washing away the sins for a brief, steamy, forgettable moment.