"You had a room," I say. "It was horrible, but it was yours. You made it yours, so that no one else could have it. Do you remember where it was?" We walk through narrow streets in the sunshine, to a street where the buildings are old and worn. The one I stop outside is the worst of all of them, windows broken, paint peeling. It feels empty. But I can sense him here like an itch in my gums.