Most nights I slept wherever I fell, either the meds or the alcohol putting me to stupor. On good nights, I dozed off in the bar face down in my own drool. None of it stuck for long, though. No matter what I did, sleep was elusive and short.

Somehow, money kept slipping into and out of my hands along the way. Rarely did I remember how or when. It never amounted to anything. Whatever I'd make, I'd spend, and round and round I went on that neon carousel without a hint of it slowing or stopping. It was exhausting.

But everything slowed down eventually. The oily gears will grind to a halt, the batteries die, the wheel rust and refuse to spin. It all goes quiet. Forever. Maybe there’s some sort of comfort in that thought?

Though I rarely trudged back to its comfort, I did have a place of my own. It was a small apartment above a tiny Chinese Mexican fusion restaurant. The joint below only had five tables and a kitchen that was more of an aluminum box. There was room enough for one cranky cook, the sour old man of vague Asian descent who owned the building. The place was run down overall, but the upstairs was cheap to rent.

It was my dark place, the hole I'd crawl to when I couldn't take the streets anymore. The nights were rough on the border, broken by biker night raids and threatened by roving gangs of slicers: vile cannibals who picked off the remaining victims after a ganger attack.

The apartment, though, was nestled safely in a LowDowns residential neighborhood. Here, the nights were relatively quiet. You couldn't pick the place out of a lineup, except for the noisy sign outside the front end, but it was the closest thing to home.

The street was wet when I arrived, sparkling with oily water. The pink neon of the Eagle Dragon's sign flickered in warm street puddles. On either side of the street, windows were dark. A stray siren whined in a far off borough.

The restaurant door and the door upstairs sat side by side, protected by dull iron gates. The handle to my place sat waiting for my hand like a rusted sleeping dragon, guarding my treasure trove of useless shit. The turnkey stuck but moved when I jiggled the key.

Upstairs, the place was furnished with old squeaky furniture: a dusty old couch, a heavy coffee table full of old magazines, a depressed love seat that creaked in the corner when you sat on it and the door always stuck when I entered; but assuredly, whenever I shut it behind me, the evening felt infinitely safer. So when I popped through the door that evening and the musty air of the apartment dried my nostrils, I cherished its safety. Shutting the door behind me was cathartic.

I threw off my coat. It slapped useless against the coffee table, covering up old car mags, and the classic living sections of the newest holozines left lying around. Dust kicked up when I fell hard into the couch seat. Dipping my head back onto the smelly cushions, my lids fell like concrete bags, and for once, sleep felt as if it would hit me soon.

Like a boat on the ocean waves, I teetered up and down on the feeling, in and out of consciousness. Diego. I hadn't heard that name in years. And I hadn't seen that face in more. If there was a blacker soul, I never met it. He was the kind of man that would shoot a puppy in the face for some pocket change… but that's because he knew how to take that pocket change and make infinite money out of it.

What motivated a man like that? How did he spend his money? What was he doing on an evening like this on his own? Sitting on his old musty couch?

The boat fell into a nice rhythm. The current of sleep carried me further out to sea. The waves were larger here. After I went up for a while, I went back down, dipping into deep swelling valleys whose summits blocked the sea sun.

What motivated Chuckles? What was there to motivate someone like Chuckles? The kid had never seen anything in life other than extreme violence. At his age, the poor bastard was unsavable. Even if a nun saved his life one day, Chuckles would likely pop her over the head with a pipe and rummage through her clothes for alms money.

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But his kid friends weren't the same… not yet. They relied on his violence to survive, to thrive. When that was gone, or not enough, would they be able to change? The question was, though, into what?

My mind drifted to the poor girl from the alley, remembering her face when I picked her out of the trash. The bruise had swollen her cheek.

Dirty blonde hair, green eyes, with freckles, the kid could've been on the cover of a magazine for cute children. She didn't belong out there with the animals.

I found myself wanting to hug the poor child, hug her and tell her it was going to be alright. I wanted to wrap my arms tight around her and squeeze. I don't know why, but I'd squeeze so tight, I'd squeeze out all the bad shit that ever happened to her, every abuse, every hunger, every fear, until the only bad thing that remained was the memory of today, then I'd squeeze that out too.

Instead, a premonition set forth to me. Her pretty face sitting so delicate in my hands turned to bone, flesh withering like sand, and her skull stared back at me expressionless.

My mind swirled like a whirlpool now, my little ship a tiny toy trapped in this impossible vortex. It was pulled into the twisting shape, sinking faster, and faster to its zenith. Sleep was ne–

Buzz.

I woke with such a start the room spun for a moment. A splitting headache started like a fist hammered into my skull top down. But the room was quiet.

What was that? Had I imagined it?

Buzz. The buzzer at my door called out to me. Sleep confusion still withering my thoughts, I wobbled to my feet. Before I answered, I wrestled the revolver from my coat pocket.

"Who is it?" I asked harshly, revolver in hand.

"I'm sorry. I followed you here." It was Milo. My headache worsened. "I was just curious where you lived, but then it started raining and I don't know my way back." This dumb little girl. I hadn't even had, what, fifteen minutes of peace? I checked the clock. It was almost eight p.m. I had been asleep for around four hours.

Oh. Longer than I thought. I considered for a moment leaving Milo outside to fend for herself, but it was dangerous for a young girl past dark, even in these neighborhoods. I sighed.

"Alright, come up," I said unkindly, unlocking the front gate.

Before she arrived I hid the pistol in my bedroom. Then, I waited for her. When the door to the apartment opened, a queasiness rose within me. I didn't know what I was going to do with this girl.

I walked out to meet Milo as the timid young girl stepped in, sparkles of acid rain glistening in her hair and from her soaked clothes. At first sight, all I thought was: I don't want you here. This isn't a place for warzoners. It's mine. But I didn't chastise her. The look on her face stopped me. She was obviously scared and out of place.

"Why are you here?" I asked, meeting her in the kitchen, at the front door.

"Oh, well I followed you–"

"Why," I asked again, sharply cutting her off and staring her down.

"Oh... I just wanted to see where you went when you disappeared. I don't know." There's that timid voice again. It didn't seem like she was faking it, though, or ushering for easy sympathy. It was genuine shame.

"The boys are always riding around sleeping wherever they can find. You know, abandoned houses and stuff. I always wondered where you went. Wondered what it was like to live in a normal place. So I followed you." That made me pause.

I understood what she meant. My anger subsided hesitantly. Alright…

“Come in– but don’t get comfortable. When the rain stops I’m putting you on the first bus back to the BorderZone.”

“Okay,” she said timidly, stepping into my apartment like there were landmines in it.

Without any real idea on where to go from here I piddled in my little half-kitchen, checking cupboards for food scraps just as an excuse to do something. I’d never entertained guests before… and quite frankly I didn’t know what the hell a normal did on an evening like this. My usual was a drug-addled stupor.

I found an old cereal box. I guess I was hungry ...just until the rain stops.

I pulled out two bowls with spoons, then checked the milk in the fridge with a sniff. Almost bad. When fake milk went sour it separated into water and whatever else they put in it. Then the chemicals turned toxic. But it was all I had. We’ll risk it.

"Come here," I said, pulling a stool up to the counter and pouring her a bowl of cereal. Timidly she ambled over like a mouse in a den of cats. "Come on, sit down." My tone had softened dramatically.

"What is it?" She asked looking down at the “meal”.

"Cereal. It's sweet. You'll love it."