It's a dark time for the city, and a dangerous time for anyone who has nowhere off the streets to go after dark. Rat's been making the rounds, checking on the people he knows, but so far so good. He spent last night laying low, and had to make the rounds again when there were fresh murders for the headlines. By early afternoon he's on his fifth cup
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For once, he's not driving the bread truck; he's on foot, a slouching figure in a brown coat. His mop of curly hair hangs over his eyes, but there's something very distinctive in the way John moves; something wary but deliberate, as if he knows where he's going, and is in a hurry to get there, but expects to be interrupted at any moment.
"Hey, Rat," he calls from several feet away. "Got a minute?"
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