His head hurt.
Not a sharp pain.
A weight.
As if someone had filled his skull with wet sand and then pressed down with the palm of their hand.
His mouth was dry, bitter.
His tongue felt like sandpaper.
His hoodie smelled of smoke, beer, sweat, and something deeper: a smell of night, of street, of flight.
His jeans were still on.
His Converse untied.
His shirt wrinkled, with a stain he didn't remember getting.
He hadn't undressed.
He hadn't washed.
He hadn't really slept.
He didn't care.
He got up.
The room spun for a second, as if the floor had tilted beneath him.
Then it stopped.
Or maybe he had gotten used to the movement.
He looked at himself in the mirror.
He didn't recognize himself.
Red eyes.
Messy hair.
Pale skin.
A guy who looked like he'd come out of an accident, not a bed.
A guy who hadn't chosen to be there.
He ran a hand over his face.
A day's beard scratched his fingers.
He straightened his hoodie.
Put his headphones around his neck.
He didn't turn on the music.
He didn't feel like it.
Or maybe he did, but his hands wouldn't obey.
He walked out of the room.
The house was silent.
Too silent.
Thora wasn't there.
Mrs. Lund wasn't there.
Just the sound of his steps on the wooden floor, a dry, hollow sound, as if he were walking inside an abandoned house.
Outside, Brooklyn was humid.
Heavy.
Full of smells he didn't recognize: burnt coffee, gasoline, fresh bread, wet leaves, metal, old rain.
The sky was low, gray, as if it wanted to crush him.
He walked toward the subway.
The stairs were dirty, stained with rain and chewing gum.
The train arrived with a metallic noise, a long lament, like a wounded animal.
Askel got on.
Sat down.
Looked at his reflection in the dirty glass.
He didn't see anything he wanted to see.
The campus was already alive.