The artificial natural lighting flickers and then goes dead. Instantly, the concourse shines sickly with auxiliary fluorescence. The few other passengers stretched out around Ian remain sleeping. Earlier they looked like robust travelers economizing their downtime with a cat nap. Under the fluorescent light, they appear ashen and sunken-cheeked. The lipstick of the woman near him is ghastly red against the monochrome skin of her cheeks. In perfectly pressed suit and tie, the man in the seat opposite gives the impression of being in state—the mortician having forgotten to sew shut his gaping mouth. The others in seats farther away don’t look asleep so much as passed out. How many years of off beam living did it take to leave them so deformed with exhaustion?