Willy paused outside an ajar room door. Unlike during the Overnight’s previous life, many of the rooms were now left open to passersby, enhancing the place’s transition from anonymous nightly refuge to long-term communal neighborhood.

Willy leaned against the doorjamb, taking in a short, thick-waisted woman whose smile offset the hard times etched on her face. She was standing before the TV set, a remote in her hand.

“Hey there, Jen. How you been?”

She put aside the remote and began teasing a hank of bottle-blond hair in need of a touchup, her ringed fingers lingering by her cheek and revealing an elaborate sleeve tattoo. “Been good. You know, holding it together.”

“And Derek? He’s gotta be in his twenties by now.”

The smile widened. “He drives a truck for Point-to-Point Hauling, thanks to you.”

“Good for him,” he said. “He deserves the credit there, Jen. I just got out of the way. You know, boys’ll be boys. He knew what was what. You must be proud.”

“You know it,” she replied, coming to the door and standing close. He could smell the breath mint struggling against the alcohol. “What’re you doin’ wandering around? You on the job?”

“Looking to chat with Corey Browne. You seen him?”

She frowned. “Here? Now and then. I try to avoid him.”

“He got anyone special in tow right now? Somebody he likes to hang with?”

“Margie Sullivan’s his latest. Me and some of the others warned her not to cozy up, but you know how it is. You dangle a little candy in front of some women, they can’t say no. And he’s got the candy.”

“What’s he selling nowadays?” Willy asked.

“Some shit called Killer-Diller. I heard it lives up to its name.”

Willy had heard the same. Heroin/fentanyl mixtures were commonplace by now, most of them sold in packets stamped with catchy names. Willy had given up questioning why anyone would inject, ingest, or inhale something that sometimes literally had a skull and bones stamped on it. On the other hand, as a recovering alcoholic, he wasn’t one to stand in judgment.

“Where’s Margie hang her hat?” he asked instead.

“Room 373. Upstairs.” Jen pointed with her thumb.

More hallway, a set of stairs, the elevator being unreliable. The carpeting had faded and become stained, the wallpaper torn and defaced. Here and there, plaster had broken away, leaving divots and scars unlikely to be repaired. It all reinforced the impermanence of such places, along with that of their inhabitants.

Willy reached Room 373’s firmly closed door and knocked.

“Who is it?” came the response moments later.

“Police,” he acknowledged, knowing the woman behind the voice could see him through the peephole.

“What d’you want?”

“Open up, Margie. You’re not in trouble, at least not with me.”

After a pause, the voice said, “Hang on,” and the lock snapped open.

It didn’t matter. Almost ferally aware of his surroundings at all times, Willy sensed before he saw a figure appear down the hall, a small bag in his hand.