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Proustite was fast asleep on Harold Bruhnmen's expensive living room sofa. Crumpled between his body and the back of the sofa there was a half-eaten bag of salt and vinegar potato chips. Proustite slept with his arms crossed and his hands tucked in his ar pits - a trick he'd developed in the Rift to keep his fingers warm.

He snored.

It was the end of the afternoon. Right around the time people fortunate enough to have 9 - 5 jobs started wrapping up for the day. Proustite had been there since the morning. As Jack, he'd helped himself to Harold's shower and Harold's shampoo. Harold's razor and Harold's toothbrush. Harold's towels and Harold's deodorant. He'd tried eating Harold's food and then had to go out for potato chips when everything available in Harold's kitchen was either too healthy or too rich. In the Rift he had almost starved. Outside the Rift Jack had yet to develop much of an appetite for anything that wasn't the blandest food you could think of.

He lived mostly off raw potatoes, potato chips and McDondald's french fries - and it was plain in the sunkenness of his cheeks, the sallowness of his skin. Proustite looked a decade too old, but was otherwise well groomed.

A fly landed on his nose. He waved it off in his sleep. Rolled onto his side, and slumbered on, drooling onto Harold's sofa.