It was the Sunday morning street. Our streets have days, and even hours.

She was trying to look tough and careless, but she just looked scared. He says he wanted to laugh, and, at the same time, something in her frightened eyes made him want to cry.

‘Man, I know what you’re saying. And I appreciate it. But you don’t know – the worst thing, man, the worst thing – is that they can make you so fucking scared. Scared, man. Scared.’

He is young, very, very young, but also very old; but not old in the way that she had expected him to be. She had expected the age of corruption.

She is confronting the age of sorrow. She is confronting torment.