“If I stay in it, I’ll rot,” he muttered.

“That’s what you say every time before you do something stupid.”

He turned. Nikos was standing a few steps behind him, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a cigarette that had burned crooked. He was one of those men who at thirty five already look forty five. Not because they aged naturally. Because life stepped on them with a heel. Thin, sleepless, two days of beard, red eyes, his jacket smelled of damp and smoke even from a distance.