The walk back to his own apartment felt like a journey through a dream for Hansen, the kind of dream where you are running through waist-deep water, the world around you moving at a frantic, blurred pace while you remain trapped in a slow-motion nightmare. The city streets were loud, the afternoon sun was blindingly bright against the glass of the skyscrapers, and the sidewalk was crowded with people hurrying toward their own lives. But Hansen felt as though he were moving through a thick, gray fog that dampened the sound of the world.
He reached his small, cluttered flat on the north side of the district and shut the door, the double click of the deadbolt echoing sharply in the silence. He didn't turn on the lights. He didn't even take off his coat. He just stood in the narrow entryway, the scent of his own lonely existence, stale coffee, old paper, and the faint, lingering smell of the cafe grill, pressing in on him.
