It was a cold night and I was out of sorts as I left the theater. My box seats had been sticky, and an understudy replaced the famous Miguel Dornados, whom I'd gone to see. "Hey, brother." The voice oozed to my ears as though too tired to properly leap. "Brother, got any oil?"

Against decades of trained reflexes, I stopped. "What?" He was gangly, up on his elbows to address me. Moonlight shone off a slick of sweat that made me lean away. If it wasn't the shakes, it might be contagious. These people lie about, take whatever they could beg off soft-hearted passersby who worked for a living. God, it was like they were a different species.

"Anything. Olive. Veggie. Mineral. Machine. Anything, brother. Don't need much." I swallowed my revulsion. Even my disciplined mind had to imagine what it was for. I skipped the thought of dense calories straight to a sex thing I tried and failed not to contemplate.

"No. Uh, no." I quickly left him behind. When I was block away, I called my car and looked back. The sidewalk was empty. Except for a dark, spreading stain that I could only believe was oil.