Over, he said. This is done. He answers the final clue on the crossword puzzle, places his pen on the nightstand, and turns off the lamp.

He lays there with a blanket over him and a soft pillow beneath his head. The pillow is too soft. He bends it and lies on his side, closes his eyes, but he can not sleep.

A small television sits on an end table between the bed and wall. He sits up and turns it on. Charlie Rose is interviewing Lauren Bacall. He’s practically blushing through the interview. Even in black and white, his face turns red. Shuts it off. The boy goes to the sink in his room and splashes water on his eyes, cheeks, and forehead. It’s two in the morning.

Kid goes outside and sits on the stoop. Up on 8th Avenue busses are going by. Taxis stop for drunks. The sound of Mexican music plays loudly from a restaurant on the corner. Hookers stroll by and ask if he wants a date. He points at his pockets and shakes his head. Creatures of Manhattan in ’87.

A cigarette is lit. He inhales and blows out smoke into the cold morning air. Watches as the sun rises. Tomorrow, he’ll do the same.