If I didn’t know better, I’d say my watch had stopped. The hour and a half between 0400 and 0530 seemed to drag on for a least a fragging lifetime, and only the growing pinky-red smear of the coming dawn to the east confirms that time hasn’t come to a screeching halt. My body and brain are both reminding me in no uncertain terms that I had less than two hours sleep before the Wenonah hallway became a shooting gallery, but I can’t let myself pay any attention. The soykaf I’m sipping from a vending-machine cup is hot enough to scald my mouth, and tastes like it’s got enough chemicals to ensure me a nice collection of cancers by the time I’m thirty-five, but pain and disgust are the only things keeping me going at the moment.