A skinny young guy trudges slowly up alongside her, hands burrowed deep in his two-sizes-too-big-jeans pockets, a lackluster nervousness hanging about him. He comes to a stop, stares at the map. He's a pale and pasty sight, dark tired circles under his eyes. Looks like he needs to sleep for about a month. Looks like he needs a good feed. Smells ripe, a sickly stench of filmy sweat, like he needs a long, hot shower. He stares at the map, lost, defeated. On edge, fidgety, trying to ignore the way his skin itches and his stomach cramps and his body aches and nose runs, like he's coming down with the flu. He's definitely coming down, but not with that.

"This is fucking bullshit, man," comes a low, scoffing mutter to himself, almost under his breath but loud enough to be heard.