Gary sat with his back against the cold bricks of a corner building, his rear on the sidewalk, traffic buzzing by at the intersection of Lexington and 86th Street. As pedestrians walked past, Gary leaned forward, pulling his left pant leg up to reveal an open sore an inch and a half in diameter, layers of pink and red flesh open and exposed nearly down to the bone.

The sheets were pulled high over my body, the edge of the beige comforter tickling my bare shoulders. Gray morning light spread through the brown drapes of my window, dawn approaching. It was Saturday and I was just getting to bed, having peeled off my clothes and dowsed myself in Bengay.

The echoes of the humming engine fill the truck’s cab with a dull gray wall of noise, one overtaken only by the blaring radio and the regular beeps of taxi horns. Processions of automobiles flow down the city streets, crossing over the white lane markers, swerving over the dotted lines like fish riding the crisscrossed currents of a mighty river.