After the market closes, I find my friend standing in the darkened plaza of shuttered booths, smoking a cigarette with a blank look on her face.
“I hated everybody walking through the market, and everybody who bought stuff from me today, and Scott, I just can’t do it anymore,” she says, her voice dead, the ember of her cigarette steady in the darkness.
“Get your head in the fucking game,” another friend of ours explodes, gesturing with her own cig. “You’ve got six, six! days and you are not giving up."