He was not exactly cold. That was the strange thing. The air was sharp, the damp slipped in through the sleeves, but the cold was not what troubled him. What troubled him was the feeling that nothing on him fit properly anymore. Not the clothes. Not the neighborhood. Not his name. Not his age. Not even the country he had been born in, the same country that now spoke about him as if he were a percentage, a burden, a statistical loss.