One block up, they reached their destination, a dive named Olaf’s. The sign buzzed and crackled as the letters still lit struggled to join the already dead "a." Huddled by the door were two chipheads. One mumbled a disjointed litany of the sensations swirling through her dying brain, while the other fumbled through the usual sob-story. Crenshaw hurried past, then had to pull Addison away from the grasping hands of the panhandler.