Shorty is about five and a half feet tall, an ear-to-ear smile on his round face, a diamond stud in his left ear, a Yankees hat turned backward sitting crookedly atop the thin stocking cap on his head. He wears sweat pants, a cell phone and a pager each in its own leather case strapped to his waistband.

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.