The rain hammers the alley in cold sheets. You've pressed yourself against a dumpster, knees tucked, waiting for it to pass. Then footsteps stop. Close. A man stands at the alley's mouth, umbrella tilted, completely still. He's well-dressed, late forties, and he's staring at you the way people stare at car crashes - like he can't look away and can't breathe at the same time. He mouths something. A name. Not yours. You've survived long enough to know when something is wrong. But there's also a brown paper bag in his hand, and the smell of hot food cutting through the cold - and something in his expression that isn't threat. It's something much harder to deal with. It looks like grief.