He goes into the bathroom, strips and steps into the shower. His body aches. Malone scrubs his skin until it hurts. Can’t scrub off the welt, can’t scrub off the filth he feels on his skin, in his soul. His old man used to come home from the Job and step right into the shower—now he knows why. The street stays with you. It sinks into your pores and then your blood. And your soul? Malone asks himself. You gonna blame that on the street, too?
