NOVEMBER 20, 1934
MORNING CAME, AND WE were both exhausted. We had traded shifts watching the window. It had been too late when we left Skaron’s to go to the docks, but we didn’t feel safe enough to go to bed. I had gotten less rest though, because the damned head had woken me every few hours to light another cigarette. They were my cigarettes, might I add.
I ended up sitting in my chair, wearing not much more than my drawers and a union suit, drinking a pick-me-up and chewing on a toothpick. There were no more Luckies. In life, it would’ve been pathetic. In unlife, it was still pretty pathetic. He sat in the windowsill, scanning the street.
I felt compelled to pull out this notebook and flip through it. Something nagged at me, and lack of sleep was making it stick out in my mind. “Why
