In the morning he left the hotel before sunup. The day was cold, stabbing through his Armani suit, icicle fingers finding paths through his wound-around scarf. He had left his great coat to whoever next stayed in the room.

He felt a sudden warming of his shoulders, the back of his thin turkey neck. The sun hit him hard from behind as if chasing him into reality.

In front of him, each footstep ground down into a short, stout black shadow that stayed one step ahead of him, fell to his side at the corners, slipped in behind him sometimes.