( Jimmy. He tries the word mutely in a slack, dulled mouth, works his jaw around it. Finds it tastes of nothing but the same ash that has been burying his thoughts and memories in gravel.

And he reaches out, at last, to offer his piece of smudge-charcoal. Perhaps this is why the man has held out his hand, for all Zenobius has no payment to give him. )

I want it back, when you're done. They don't give me much here. ( He all but spits the words out, as if to condemn the implicit stinginess. ) You pay them well? For them not to spare me a pencil?

( There's injustice in neglecting and dismissing an old man. ) Not getting your coin's worth, are you? Don't pay them gold.