Morning city. A crowd of people, swarming back and forth, wherever you look – there's someone there, not a bare patch of concrete in sight. Formal suits are rare, everyone wears something light in the summer heat, with occasional flashes of nonconformist outfits cutting through the haze. It's scorching, though the sun itself hasn’t even shown yet. I don’t know why, but my eye catches on one of the swarm – just another faceless, heavyset man. He’s unkempt, shirt sticking out from under his belt, one loop torn, socks pulled up over his pants, the last button missing, dry skin on his hands, nails untrimmed, fingers clutching a polished briefcase. The crowd spits him out, carries him along its current, and he ends up on a long street where no light shines. Frozen. Frozen even in this heat, the homeless lie across warm manhole covers, their faces lit by the lamplight seeping through, bathed in white steam and locomotive warmth. They lie there, but don’t sleep. Something clicks in one’s head – he starts to crawl, pulling himself with just his hands, the leg long gone. The fat man keeps dragging on, not looking, not seeing. Humming something under his breath, choking, choking on cigarette smoke. Tall buildings block every kind of light – the lamps in the grates, the risen sun. The air is stale, but cloyingly clean: no tetanus, no malaria in it. The fat man shuffles on, and tiny cotton tufts keep peeling off his worn trousers. Then, from the steam-wilted shirt, a hand appears. A damp, steamed hand. The jaw of the legless man doesn’t part his teeth. But through them, a raspy voice pushes out: “Heyy, frien’…” “Y’dropp’d sum’n…” “Y’dropp’d it…” First the cheerful whistle stumbles, then stops entirely. The neck turns slowly, like a rusty hinge, eyes bulging. “Thanks for yer kindness, buddy... ain't no need…”

The fat man picks up his pace. Glances into a jeweler's display. The grimy one twitches faster too. The fat man breaks into a run. Behind him, the voice keeps chasing: “Y’dropp’d it…” A sharp turn – almost loses his balance – an alley, left or right? He veers right. The grubby one keeps up, extra weight betraying him, slowing him down. The lean pursuer bounds like a locust – five feet in one lurch. Tires screech on sun-softened asphalt. The fat man miscalculates a step, slams his forehead into a street sign. Still has the strength to turn his neck once more – and regrets it. The homeless man clutches the dropped thing in his fist, pulls his arm back, and slams it into the pudgy face. “Oth’rs’d keep it, but I’m a decent citizen…” Red drops bloom over his flushed cheeks. “I always return import’nt stuff to its owner…” “Ne’er keep wallets, not me…” A crowd encircles the scene. Darting eyes, greedy hands that need to be swatted away. The cornered man barely lifts his head and grabs the homeless by the collar. When the fist rises again, he starts shouting: “Nineteen ninety-nine…” “Back when the system cut us loose, I used to hammer on the keyboard…” “I knew long ago all them machines were wrong…” “But I only understood it on the first day of the new century…” “Somethin’ deep got shifted, moved an inch…” The crowd slowly disperses. The homeless man vanishes into it.