Nick went cautiously along the passage, brushing his fingers against the ramshackle houses on either side. The smell was terrible and he stepped into stickly filth. He made the turn and kep going for what he reckoned was half a block. The shacks closed in on either side, jumbles of time and paper and old packing crates - anything that could be salvaged or stolen and used to make a home. Now and then he saw a dim light or heard a baby crying. The reain wept for the inhabitants, the batayu buraku, the rag and bone pickers of life.

1968.