Afternoons, he wakes to the smell of eggs and onion. The only way up to his squat above the restaurant is a fire escape; Garrison makes do without electricity, and washes furtively with their hose.

He buys lunch from the little blind cook, his only human contact. He’s said he avoids the front counter because he’s horribly disfigured (but really his face is still all over the news).

They have a ritual: Garrison knocks at the kitchen door, and she jokes about saving table scraps; he tells her she looks pretty today. She brings his check, his change, his prison food.