By the time I’m rumbling onto Northeast Sixtieth Street, the sheets of rain and the wind in my face have cleared my head to some degree—and it’s just enough to let me know exactly how drekky I feel. I park the bike in the back alley, chain it securely to the building’s gas meter. Then I unlock the metal back door to the building, locking it again carefully behind me, and climb the narrow stairs to the second floor. The hallway—just as narrow as the stairs—is empty. The door to my apartment’s at the far end, at the front of the building—I picked it specifically for the view out over the street and down to the front door of the building. Out of habit, I check the telltales I always leave around the door. Nobody’s opened it since I left here a few days ago. Not that I expected anyone to have done so—Bart’s uninvited visit a week back was the exception, not the rule. I unlock the door and pass into the small living room with its kitchen alcove to the right. I’m hungry, but on consideration I decide I want sleep more than I want food. Anyway, I know there’s nothing in the fridge except a bottle of vodka and some yogurt that’s probably quietly developing into some new form of life by now.