7 a.m. A bench serves as a perch for two boys wrapped up against the cold, a brass plaque indicates that it was discarded in memory of a long forgotten citizen. The boys’ gaze is at once distracted and meticulous. A storm has left debris fluttering across the tarmac. Piles of rubbish are arranged at intervals along the pavement. Curious lumps embalmed in plastic and enigmatic heiroglyphs stamped on soggy cardboard hint at a different life behind each door. Traffic signals blink at each other across the empty street.
One boy flicks his red fringe clear of steel-rimmed spectacles, it flops back over his forehead. The other boy talks earnestly. Even at this hour the city radiates noise but, by concentrating carefully, it’s possible to make out his friends words as he terminates the exchange, “Don’t talk.”