I can see the sheet of paper shivering, catching in the breeze as he paces the room. His voice is agitated, thin with stress, head bent down to the phone he holds tight to his ear. The room is hot, stuffy almost, a long rectangle of sun from the old window resting on the dusty patterned floor. Papers are strewn across the dilapidated bed, bags open, awaiting the contents of the room. There is other moving paraphernalia here too. A black plastic bag sits in the corner, a few empty water bottles littered alongside the white wall. Cardboard boxes sit beside the bed, upturned to use as makeshift bedside tables, a small, unsuccessful stab at cozy homeliness. The dirty fan still spins, oblivious to my incensed rage. Just a few more ropes to slash, and we can fly from this place forever.