“He lives on my floor, at the end of the second of the four hallways that branch out from the elevator like the legs of a spider. He strides down the hallway with his hands in his pockets, bouncing with each step as if his legs are too long to move his body efficiently. He is always dressed in the same black leather jacket, which exudes the musty, cigarette-tinged odor that comes from spending years in the same closet. He is the sort of tall, lean person who tends to mold himself into a doorframe whenever there is one available. He is temporary, never really belonging wherever he is: a question mark, an eraser smudge.”