April 6, 2002
Man down on East 14th Street. He’s on all fours, a straw-headed scarecrow abasing himself before some harsh deity only he can see. Every few seconds a sharp spasm jolts his body, his back arches like a cornered cat and he barks like a kicked dog. A wet patch of uncertain colour and origin shines on the pavement directly beneath his pain-crushed face.
A woman hurries her small child past the ragged wreck in a wide arc. The child stares at him, round-eyed, with an expression of fearful curiosity but no discernible revulsion. Not yet, not yet.