It was nine in the morning, and Leon was well into the story mode of the latest Call of Duty. He had beaten all the Call of Dutys, or Calls of Duty, depending how you approached the pluralization. He didn’t know what this one was fully called—Call of Duty 19: Carnage of Vengeance or whatever. They were all pretty good. Leon was high, anyway.

Grant’s tire crushed a hypodermic needle as his BMW rolled to a stop at a red light. He was explaining wireless internet to Taylor, the woman riding shotgun (a 7.5, he will later rate her to his buddies). Grant observed his pre-gentrified surroundings with an arrogant ease that relied entirely on being inside of an automobile. They were headed to a pop-up concept in an abandoned warehouse in Denver Arts District that was doing a $250/head tasting menu.

Last night I couldn’t sleep. The holidays do that to me. I went downstairs, figuring I’d make myself a little snack. A chocolate chip cookie and milk, maybe – nothing crazy. But even before my hand gripped the stainless-steel handle of my smart fridge, its display lit up: Wouldn’t it be better to just call your mother?

“It’s two-a.m.” I said. “I’m just hungry.”

There they are again, unboxing their fucking noise-makers. Attaching long orange snakes from my walls to their things, horridly neon things. God, what an endless din. I watch them through gaps in the lath, peeking out between its cracks. Rattling vibrations shake me loose from my nap and I slipped through a fresh hole in the plaster.

Leila’s front wheel wobbles when she cycles over a crack in the tarmac. A car behind blares its horn as she struggles to steady the books in her basket and keep her summer dress from flaring up.

‘You daft old cow,’ the driver yells as he overtakes. He waves a flabby arm at her, blurry tattoos stretched all out of shape. She gives him the finger back.