“Her apartment had an indescribable smell. It was the smell of a withering, unloved body. It was the smell of dust and Brooklyn air-shaft darkness. It was the smell of slipcovers on the furniture and double locks on the door. It was the smell of lights that couldn’t be turned on because it was a waste of money. It was the smell of no pleasure to be found around any corner, down any hall, in any closet. It was the smell of a stranger’s drab home, where I didn’t belong. It was the smell of a life of no account to anyone.”