He grabbed two bottles from the little refrigerator under the window and twisted off the tops. As he approached Joelle, he suddenly became self-conscious of the way he was walking. He had, since the mugging, developed a particular, idiosyncratic stride, a self-deprecating, slightly pigeon-toed hobble meant to communicate his subservience to local street predators; he realized that it had become second nature. He sat on the bed, his knees almost touching Joelle’s, looked down at his beer, and smiled. Joelle looked around nervously.