She was suddenly very aware of the room, the television still blaring, and the chill in the air. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look. A remittance man. He chuckled. Only her ungloved fingers, and the arms in their long tight sleeves as she held the heavy gun aloft, bore any sign of stiffness. What is it you’re after? Money, I suppose. I think that I have become a drug drinker. “I am lonely.
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