We sit on the curb a little longer. The street cleaners come through. They wait until the city’s at its most quiet, right before the first patch of dawn, and they walk from Dallas to Hamilton sweeping at all of the concrete under them. Shit’s actually pretty beautiful if you think about it—all the convicts and baseheads and fuckups giving the city a clean slate—but before I tell Miguel he’s already fallen asleep. Dude’s on my shoulder, arms crossed like he’s deliberating.
