Billy Harrow stood at the corner of Market and Fourth at six in the morning, the way he had been standing at that corner for eleven months and twenty-three days.
The wind came off the Ohio River cold and wet, the kind of cold that gets through your jacket and your shirt and your skin and finds the bone and stays there. Billy pulled his jacket tighter and watched trucks roll past, their headlights cutting through the grey pre-dawn light like knives through wet paper. He had three dollars and forty-seven cents in his pocket. His driver's license had...
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