Nickel Jack and Pirate Pete lived in a slanted, slat shotgun, with the death X across the door, on the corner of Annunciation and Bordeaux streets. Mold broiled in speckles on the worn green paint. Distended puddles of mosquito nurseries and trash juice sweetened the air around the sunken streets. Humidity hung its ripe arm around the brightening day when Nickel Jack woke to a curse and shattering glass.