HE WALKED DOWN the seething streets of Fortitude Valley. It was 2.30 in the morning of a Saturday night and his face was lit by the glow of a cigarette. It curled and broke against the faces of people walking by, who were stumbling drunkenly out of pulsing clubs and seedy bars with lust in their eyes, drowning and drooling in neon light.

He rounded a corner past an adult store and walked toward the train station. Familiar eyes stared from beneath blankets and beanies. An old Uncle slept in his wheelchair, his tracksuit pants folded flat over a missing leg. He felt a pang fall through his heart.