Balthazar isn't the only one wandering the city day and night, although right now Mitchell is sitting on a park bench savouring a cigarrette that hadn't been worth what he'd paid. It probably didn't help that he was using it as a substitute for a craving that involved more veins.

Someone is still idling over how he's going to live, going to survive in Baedal.

On the seat beside him is a newspaper that's had job advertisements circled with a pencil, then erased, then circled again. Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor. Hospital porter? Cleaner? He could keep trying his best to live as a decent man, although the idea was considerably more hollow without the presence of George and Annie and everything that had happened lately.

Or he could try for something...else. Whatever that meant.

Don't mind him while he broods.