Eric's alarm clock rang at five in the morning.
He turned over, habitually reached out to turn off the worn mechanical alarm clock by the bed, then lay in bed for two minutes, and reluctantly got up when the second alarm rang.
Outside the window, the sky was gray, and it was hard to tell if it was morning mist or black smoke from the factory chimneys.
The mornings in Wudu are always like this, never being able to tell where the sun is.
He lived on the third floor of this old apartment building, in a single room less than ten square meters.
A bed, a table, a wardrobe — that's all his belongings.
The window faced the narrow cobblestone street below, and the pavement was always wet; it was hard to tell if it was rainwater or waste water from some factory.
Eric took ten minutes to wash and dress, then reached for two bills from the tin can on the table and stuffed them into his pocket.
