It’s Paco, and he looks like drek. His skin’s not so much white as a faint tinge of blue, except for two big, dark smudges under the eyes. I could almost convince myself those smudges came from somebody blacking the young ganger’s eyes for him, but the truth is those marks didn’t come from external trauma. His lips are cracked and peeling, showing fissures here and there so deep they’re down to pink meat. There’s thick, yellow-white mucus trailing from his nose, and now I know why his breathing’s got that underwater sound to it—his lungs must be full of that drek. He stirs and coughs, and his breath on my face is thick with that rotting-meat reek. "Frag!" I mutter, backing away, stifling an impulse to retch.