In the Orangery on Kensington Road the glacial spigot pours and a proud man bellys up, shoulders broad and held back straight. The smell of cedar fills the bar, creeping up from the contessa stool legs. Diffused light seeps into his eyes from the hurricane lantern overhead. Outside the cold pavement meets him and the concrete sky swirls. He steals a sweater from an exterior table, army green and two sizes too small, which he’ll substitute for a pillow. A streetlight flickers on and burns his eyes. A city bus to the transfer screeches to a halt. A nightingale flutters by; it intoxicates him.