A tin-can rolls down Maine St. Skipping over stray stones, collecting dents, left to its own. The unsuspecting quail in the forest twitches unsurely. Ruffles its feathers. A click and a sweaty finger pushes, forty yards away. A shot. Out on Pyrmont Bridge the orange-clad construction workers jackhammering away in the neighborless sun trade wisecracks, marital advice, and bets. Hair growing from a newborn’s scalp pushes through the pores. Little barbs of black jagged like the remnants of a charred forest torched for industry.