“New guy! Where’s the fucking new guy?” Rails’ foreman screams down the hall to his first mate. The foreman has a tattoo of his own initials on his face (“R.G.”), probably so he doesn’t forget what they are.

His buddy smells like someone shat on a dead possum and left the whole thing to ripen on a hot sidewalk.

“How should I know?” Shit-on-a-dead-possum hollers back.

Thing is, Rails is in the same room as his foreman. The back bedroom, to be precise. He’s working on bagging up the newspapers that are stacked several feet high beside the bed. R.G. is clearing out the closet. Lots of clothes nobody wants.

Rich. That’s his name: Rich Gardner. He is a very specific kind of guy. One that Rails is intimately familiar with. Innately stupid. In a way that makes the whole world frustrating for him to deal with. Everything's a hassle when you can't calculate a 15% tip.

He might be dangerous in certain situations, depending on the level of that frustration. Most likely he's just a dip shit.

“I’m right here, Rich,” Rails says. As always, he speaks softly. But he can see the foreman jump, big as he is. The Mastigos almost cracks a smile. Almost.

“Holy fuck, you… What’s your name again?”

“Lanny.”

“Holy fuck, Lanny. You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” He hoists a black trash bag stuffed with some dead man’s clothes. “Me and Harry gonna smoke a J after I take out this load. You want in?”

Rails glances at the stack of newspapers in front of him, back to his boss. “Naw. I’m good.”

Rich gives him a disgusted look, hoists the trash bag over his shoulder. “Suit yourself.” Walks out.

When he hears the front door close behind them, Rails lets out a long, ragged breath. Hadn’t realized he’d been holding it. He can almost taste the bud.

He stands, stretches. Happy to be alone. The room smells like cigarettes and death. Dude must’ve kicked it in bed. Next to his prized newspaper collection.

Rails takes out his own smokes, flips up the top and pulls one out with his lips. Lights it in a single, fluid motion. Not like anybody’s gonna know the difference. Picks up the paper on top of the stack.

Sacramento Sleeps! The headline reads. Date: 6/15/2014.

“No shit,” Rails mutters and drops the paper back on the pile. Wanders out of the room, smoking with a certain intensity. Enters the kitchen.

They’ve already cleared out in here. The cabinets stand open. Empty.

Rails fishes a small piece of mirror out of his pocket. It's octagonal in shape and fits snugly into his palm when he cups his hand. His sponsor had once called it his tessera. Whatever the fuck that means.

He smokes and looks at the mirror in his hand. First he finds an eye. Then the corner of his right brow. A bit of cheek, near his nose.

His cigarette’s kicked. Rails slips the mirror back into the pocket of his coveralls. Turns on the water and extinguishes the butt. Drops it into a nearby trash bag.

The front door opens and his two colleagues come strolling in. They walk right by him where he's standing in the kitchen door. Like he’s not there. Maybe I'm not.

It’s only when they’ve reached the bedroom that Rich calls back down the hall.

“New guy! Lanny! Whatever the fuck!”

“I’m here, boss.” Rails is already on his way to the room. He walks in, not sparing the men a glance, and gets back to work on the newspapers.

“You’re a creepy motherfucker, you know that?” Harry, Mr. Fecal-Possum, titters at Rich's keen observation. Must've been good shit.

Rails doesn’t answer.