Fabrizio: I eye the cashier; a scrubbed young face over a clean blue uniform, still wearing the short-billed cap that old-timers lay aside in a Woolworths bag to avoid the need to clean it. I never ride the subway; I just go into the station to see my doctor. So I always buy the cheapest ticket.

But this is not something we can discuss. Eventually he wilts under my stare, and surrenders the cardboard square I need.

Beyond the chicanes, in a shadowy alcove, I see a broken man lying on a bed of rubbish. His face is in a pool of vomit, and his story is written on every vein in his arm. I lift his head and slide the paper under it, and pray for him.

I go on down to see my doctor anyway, because I must. His office is a tile-walled ledge deep underground. It faces a long pit, and beyond that an identical ledge; that’s the dispensary. From the pit drift a faint sizzle and a sharp ozone smell; at each end is a tunnel.

The pavement under my feet shudders. An earthy wind rushes past. The doctor comes!