It was one of those godforsaken nights made even worse by the mantle of rain-sodden mist that swirled within the confines of the narrow alley. The glow of a single streetlight at the entrance, to what was optimistically called Prospect Street, reflected off the watery surface of the blackened and blistered asphalt and speared the darkness like a glittering finger pointing at something lying on the ground beside the dumpster. What it was T.J. Bron couldn’t identify. Not that he tried. Not that he was even interested. He was hungry, had been for as long as he could remember. He was also broke, soaked to the skin, miserable almost to the point of intolerance and wondering if perhaps the time might finally have come when he should end it all.