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matches, blades—they have all left their marks, the most prominent one on the right side of his belly. Treefrog once stuffed a man with a knife and it slid through the gap in his ribs; it was like puncturing a balloon, it slid in and slid out, the man let out a sad slow sigh, but it didn’t kill him—the man had stolen one of Treefrog’s cigarettes. That was way back in the bad days, the worst days, when Treefrog felt that he had to stab himself on the opposite side of the rib cage. On a New York City bus he punctured himself half an inch with his knife just to get the balance. He had to knock the end of the knife in with both fists. A peculiar warmth spilled over his belly, and blood ran all down the back of the bus. The driver called for assistance over the radio but Treefrog stumbled out the door, walked along Broadway, and lost himself in the neon of Times Square. Later, back in the tunnel, there was the terror of wondering whether he should balance the wound—should he stab himself on the left-hand side?—but he didn’t; he just pressed his thumb into his side and dreamed of the metal shaft entering his flesh.
    He rubs the water over his upper torso, though it’s cold cold cold cold. His skin tingles and tightens and his nipples stand hard. He brings the snow to his veined forearms and underarms, thinks for a moment about venturing down to his crotch, decides against it.
    Grabbing his clothes, he crosses the tracks. The tunnel, in width and height, is the size of an airplane hangar.
    Treefrog jumps up a pillar and grabs a handhold that he has fashioned with a chisel, puts his foot between the pillar and the wall, heaves himself up with both hands, and he is on the first catwalk. With a lithe movement he is on the second, placing one foot carefully in front of the other, flicking one of his lighters as he goes, first with the right hand and then with the left, a huge cheap flame around him. His hair falls across his eyes so he can hardly see.
    He reaches the edge of his nest—twelve steps and always twelve—and swings himself in.
    At the entrance there is the carcass of a smashed traffic light, rescued once by Faraday. Treefrog has secured the light to a hook in the wall with barbed wire, but there’s no red yellow green since he doesn’t want electricity, no way; it’s better to keep the nest dark; he likes it that way.
    He nods to the light and moves toward his bed.
    The mattress dips in the middle from the imprint of his body and he sits, listening to the sounds of the world above him: the traffic on the West Side Highway, the high-pitched yelps of the kids tobogganing in the park, the low growls of Manhattan. Treefrog pulls some extra clothes from the sleeping bag where he has kept them warm during the night—three pairs of socks, a second coat, another pair of gloves, and an extra T-shirt, which he puts in his pocket to use as a scarf. He climbs down once more from his damp nest to the frozen mud of the tunnel floor. He likes to balance on the metal rails as he walks. Five minutes along, he passes the concrete cubicles of Dean, Elijah, Papa Love, and Faraday, but all is quiet. He moves through the shafts of light, comes to the stairwell, climbs, and then squeezes himself through the hole in the ironwork gate.
    Outside, in the world, the snow is so white that it hurts his eyes. Treefrog searches through his pockets for his sunglasses.
    *   *   *
    The crane is not around when he gets to the river. The ice has insinuated itself further into the Hudson, and the place where he threw the bricks has resealed itself like a wound, just a few pieces of timber and a plastic oil container frozen at the edge now. Barges are out in the channel, where the water still flows amid occasional chunks of ice. Further south, houseboats are tethered to the docks, icicles hanging in shards off the ropes.
    The snow blows along the waterfront in vicious