I leave the address to my office, scribbled on a blue square of cardboard. The foreman says nothing, just keeps his stare pointed forward, face mangled by hate, some of it his, some of it borrowed. I start toward the door, then hesitate at the threshold. Under my rage and my disgust, there’s an urge to put this horror right. No one deserves this slow dissolution of muscle and self. I’ve seen his affliction. I know where it’s going. I know how it ends.
