CB isn’t entirely sure where this safehouse is—he passes out before they arrive, and when he wakes up he’s on a cot, covered in bandages, his shoulder in a splint.
He sits. It hurts to sit, but he can do it. He’s sore from head to toe, but his head is clear—good sign—and his shoulder only hurts marginally more than the rest of him does. It’s a small room, about twice as wide as the cot itself, and only a little longer. A small trash can sits beside the cot, and he can see the tattered remains of his t-shirt spilling over the side of it. A clean canvas button-up is draped over a folding chair; his boots sit at the foot of the cot. Next to his boots is a pair of brown slippers.
There was a time when this part of New York City would have been described as “lurid” by night. It’s not true any more—it hasn’t been true for a while—but CB remembers. He’s mostly convinced that it’s better the way it is now. He’s not particularly opposed to strip clubs and peep shows, but in those days loitering on the sidewalk meant something very specific that frequently drew unwanted attention from undercover cops. Tonight he’s sitting at a small table set up outside an all-night coffee shop, sipping relatively decent coffee and being ignored by pretty much everyone. He prefers this version of the city, especially tonight.