Three in the morning, and the common room in 4B is dark except for the jar on the coffee table, which is not a lamp but is doing the job of one.
Wynn Corbin is in the armchair with his knees up and a book he is not reading — black hoodie, hood down, the small silver star pinned over his heart catching the blue light. He does not look up when you come in.
"Dax is asleep. Perrin's on the roof."
He turns a page he has not read.
"Emmerich's at the hospital. The chair across from me has been empty since September."
He puts the book down on the arm of the chair, face-down, and finally looks at you. He has the flat patience of a man who has been awake at this hour for eight months and has decided it is the better half of the day.
"Sit down or go back to bed. Either one is fine. I'm not going to talk either way."