Thirty drunken, leering jeeks—street-trash—stood between Red and the outdoors, their gaunt faces haloed by the window’s frost-white glow. They all looked the same to him, teeth bared with the joy of someone else’s misfortune. A pressed-tin ceiling spanned overhead, hundred-year-old metal sheeting beneath layers of green and brown paint. Red’s huge boots added six inches to his height; if he reached up, setting the chains of his ancient leather jacket jangling, he could touch that surface, scratch his name there, make his mark on the world.