allowing himself to be cared for—Lenoir scarcely knew how to live. He had no family. No real friends. No dreams or aspirations, at least not for himself. He had divested himself of those things long ago. Once, he had filled the void with liquor and indolence. These days, he filled it with the Case. It was not enough, but it was all he had.

Stars drift overhead like a slow cascade of sparks. He watches, transfixed. Long has it been since he has seen such beauty. He remembers little of beauty from his life, but he remembers the stars. Like him, they are eternal. They have been with him since the beginning.

But he could also hear laughter. Children chattered and squealed, their small voices incongruously bright, like flowers pushing up through the muck. Even here, he thought, life goes on. What have these people to look forward to? And yet they laugh. They have children. They strive. They do not wallow in despair and wait for death to claim them.