He clicked his teeth together and waited for me to comment. When I didn't, he said, “Supposedly I was using stuff to self-medicate—being my own psychiatrist.” He laughed. “Bearshit. I used it to be happy.”

Milo said, “Back on track: what else do you know about Gritz?”

“That's it.” Smile. “Do I still get to keep the money?”

“Is Terminator Three still here?” I said.

“Who?”

“A kid from Arizona. Missing pinkie, bad cough. He has a girlfriend and a baby.”

“Oh yeah, Wayne. He's calling himself that, now?” Laughter. “Nah, they all packed up this afternoon. Like I said, people come and go—speaking of which . . .”

He hooded himself with the blanket and, keeping his eyes on us, began edging toward the fence.

“What about your room for the night?” said Milo.

The man stopped and looked back. “Nah, I'll camp out tonight. Fresh air.” Grin.

Milo laughed a little bit with him, then eyed the food. “What about all this?”

The man scrutinized the groceries. “Yeah, I'll take some of that Gatorade. The Pepsi, too.”

He picked up the beverages and stashed them under the blanket.

“That's it?” said Milo.

“On a diet,” said the man. “You want, you can bring the rest of it inside. I'm sure someone'll take it off your hands.”

The hooded man led us through the darkness, walking unsteadily but without hesitation, like a well-practiced blind man.

Milo and I stumbled and fought to keep our balance, hauling boxes with only the skimpy guidance of the penlight beam.

As we progressed, I sensed human presence—the heat of fear. Then the petrol sweetness of Sterno.

Urine. Shit. Tobacco. Mildew.

The ammonia of fresh semen.

The hooded man stopped and pointed to the ground.

We put the boxes down and a blue flame ignited. Then another.

The concrete wall came into focus, in front of it bedrolls, piles of newspaper. Bodies and faces blue-lit by the flames.

“Suppertime, chillun',” shouted the man, over the noise of the freeway. Then he was gone.

More lights.

Ten or so people appeared, faceless, sexless, huddled like storm victims.

Milo took something out of the box and held it out. A hand reached out and snatched it. More people collected around us, blue tinted, rabbity, openmouthed with expectation.

Milo leaned forward, moving his mouth around his cigar. What he said made some of the people bolt. Others stayed to listen, and a few talked back.

He distributed more food. I joined in, feeling hands brush against mine. Finally our boxes were empty and we stood, alone.

Milo swung the penlight around the lot, exposing cloth heaps, lean-tos, people eating.

The hooded black man, sitting with his back up against the freeway wall, plaid legs splayed. One naked arm stretched out over a skinny thigh, bound at the biceps by a coil of something elastic.

A beautiful smile on his face, a needle buried deep in his flesh.

Milo snapped his head away and lowered the beam.