I’m lying on a creaky, uncomfortable bed in Room 2LR in one of the drekkiest flophouses I’ve ever had the bad fortune to encounter. There are honk-stains on the carpet, blood-stains on the mattress, and when the heater kicks in the reek tells me a previous occupant didn’t bother making the short walk down the hall to the drekker. Still, it’s the closest thing I’ve got to home at the moment. I needed sleep and I needed the sense of security—false or not—of a roof over my head and walls to keep out the wind and rain. If it wasn’t safe crashing in a flop when it was just the Cutters out after my hoop, it’s even more risky now. Maybe I could have kept wandering the streets until I got so fragging tired I started making drekheaded mistakes and didn’t have the mental wherewithal to compensate for them, but dossing down for a day or so seemed like the more viable alternative.