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The rickshaw deposits them at what looks like a small cottage built on the hillside, but when they stand on the road, Ajay sees it stretches five stories down, as if leaking down the mountain in a landslide.
He strides toward Sunny as if he’d been picking up speed his whole life.
Room 302 smells of disinfectant and the ghosts of human desire.
Yet he is wearing someone else’s pajamas: red pin-striped, a little too small. And in the back of his throat, the leaky faucet of postcocaine drip.
A shrewd man, his only addiction a vice that cleans up its own trace. Power.
