Vogue climbed down from his loft bed—the only way to fit everything into his tiny 350-square-foot studio apartment.
He yawned and stretched as he walked to the only window.
He cranked open the old window and breathed in the dirty air of Washington Heights.
The sounds of car horns, curses in English and Spanish, and people arguing over parking spots floated up from Amsterdam Avenue below. He sighed quietly, rubbing his eyes. He'd had that dream again—the one where everyone turned into glowing monsters. The third time this week. Staring at the peeling paint and water-stained ceiling of his tiny apartment, he almost couldn't believe it had just been a dream.
