There’s always room for another squatter under the overpasses of the Highway 5 interchange, always another two square meters for someone else way the frag down on his luck. None of the regulars talks to newcomers, they just move out of your way—most of them, at least. With some you have to show some teeth before they back off—but you can feel the sense of kinship, the diluted, distant sense of fraternity that might almost be camaraderie if it wasn’t so miserable and despairing. After my call to Finnigan, I knew I couldn’t crash on his floor, just like I knew I couldn’t hit a flophouse anywhere in the sprawl. I also knew I needed to sleep somewhere, and right fragging now, if I wanted to be any good to myself when I placed my next call in the sequence. The only place I could think of where I had any hope of shelter without having to worry about Lone Star patrols or curious night clerks was the squat-city under the interchange. There’s always room at the bottom.