I was supposed to be at work, but I’d called in sick. The foreman had been angry, and I’d lose the day’s wages, but I didn’t feel particularly concerned. I was horribly hungover, which put me in a heightened, nervy mood. I’d managed nonetheless to get downstairs while morning coffee was still being served. The breakfast room had a similar feel to the hospital’s communal hall, and indeed a similar layout as well. Those who had work, or were trying to get some, had already left an hour earlier, but a few men remained slumped in the armchairs by the fire. They’d no doubt sit there all day, since it was fiercely cold outside. They’d sit there until they’d run out of money, and were kicked out of the hotel. That same fate could easily befall me if I lost my job. As I drank the watery coffee, fragments of conversation from the night before came back to me. I recalled the man who’d claimed to have known Smith. Maybe there really was someone who’d worked on the docks a few years back and who’d borne some resemblance to me.
