The ageing alcoholic is still there, breathing... The air in the room is stale.

The ageing alcoholic is still there, breathing... The air in the room is stale.

"Do you need help?"

The pile of blankets grunts. It's hard to say if there's anything left you could do.

A coronary artery bypass graft? Take out his liver and replace it with a new one? Somehow undo 20 years of neurological damage from stimulants...

A change in the genetic make up wouldn't hurt. Ginger degenerate.

A change in the socio-economic circumstances wouldn't hurt.

"Is this.... Cuno's father we're seeing?"

"Well, judging by the colour of his hair I would say yes, it is."

The lieutenant's right -- the man's unwashed hair bears a familiar ginger tone. Even the hair on his chest is coppery. The light from the window falls into his half-open eyes.

Nocturnal lagophthalmos. The likelihood of falling asleep with partially open eyelids rises after stimulant use and heavy drinking.

There's still plenty to be scared of here. Just not what you thought.

"Doesn't look like he's going fuck anyone up any time soon."

"No, it really doesn't." The lieutenant tilts his head. "This looks very hard to recover from."

"This man won't be feeding his family any time soon. Not that he was, but..." The lieutenant thinks to himself. "At least he won't be beating his son."

A pair of half-open bug eyes is staring back at you from the dark, empty and frozen. It's clear that the person behind them is not awake.

His half-open eyes give him the look of a dead man. But he is in there... and not enjoying himself.

"This is serious damage, I'm still not sure he's not dead."

"Fuckn... k... f...pi..." Suddenly the man starts growling. Three words manage to escape his mouth, along with a strong stench of alcohol.

"Look, he's trying to communicate."

"He's gonna sleep it off, I know this shit."

"Hold on, what happened to his eyes?"

"Can't you tell? It happens to exceptionally committed substance abusers. They fall asleep with their eyelids still open. Not a pretty sight."

"I was expecting something... worse."

"I think he's still quite bad... I mean, what he has come to." The lieutenant tilts his head.

"I can't believe it, Cuno's dad isn't a loser! It must be someone else."

"Are you saying a man who looks like Cuno broke into his father's apartment and passed out in his father's bed?"

"Kim, is this thing even alive?"

"I'm afraid it is. Look, it moves." He points to a fleshy lump sticking out from the other end of the blanket. The limb seems to be twitching from time to time.

And look, the other foot is camouflaged by a striped sock bearing the name MAXTOR on the sole. Three toes are poking out of a hole.

Maxtor is a gas company. He's wearing free socks from a gas company. They probably came with the bills.

A groan rises from the man's throat, dry like a death rattle... He's trying to say something in his sleep.

The bear is trying to wake up!

"Hey, talk to me! Are you even alive?"

A lump of flesh is sticking out from under the blanket. It seems to be twitching from time to time, like the paw of an animal who's having a bad dream.

Figure out what he's trying to say.

The man groans once again, but his tongue keeps failing him: It's impossible to make out the syllables. A hand emerges from the blankets, trying to gesticulate something...

And then it dawns upon you, clear and surreal...

"Pigs," he says.

He's trying to call you pigs.

Are you going to let a semi-conscious degenerate disrespect you?

"Fuck you. Die."

His hand falls back on the bed, limp and defeated. A loud snore escapes his mouth... He's asleep again.

"At least he got to say his piece."

"What did you just say?!"

"You're awake... He's awake!"

"Pig," he says.

He's trying to call you a pig.

The man groans once again, but his tongue keeps failing him: It's impossible to make out the syllables. A hand emerges from the blankets, trying to gesticulate something...

And then falls back again, limp and defeated by sleep. A loud snore escapes his mouth.

"Maybe we should help him somehow?"

"What is there to do? We could turn him on his side, so he doesn't choke on his own vomit. But he's already on his side..."

"Poor guy."

"We could take him to Remedie or Saint Batiste, but he doesn't have money for medical services. The Almshouse would turn him down..."

"They don't do charity for people who're trying to kill themselves. Besides, he'll be dead in a few..." The lieutenant stops, listening to him.

... years? Months? Weeks?

The pile of blankets grunts miserably.

"Excellent form."

Nod.

[Leave.]

(Whisper.) "I took your amphetamine, old man."