He spat and he muttered as he walked up and down the ranks of bunks. He swore and coughed. His head down and forward, a glower on his brow, he was dark and sour and ill-lit from a bare bulb, yellow in the corridor behind.
We hid under our blankets, waiting for him to pass. Because, if he turned at your bunk, you hoped he chose the one above, or below, just not you.
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