Dzinski set the pot, caked in day-old, baked-on, burnt coffee, in the sink, and let it fill with water. Dirty plates, stacked any which way, filled the small counter. A housefly, fat and slow-moving in the cold apartment, buzzed by.
He pulled a bottle from the cupboard and filled a teacup. The radio played chintzy Christmas songs between blaring hysterical advertisements for the local department store.
His ears still rang. Head still sore. His shoulder stiff, he fingered the bandage, and they came away wet.
Dzinski leaned against the window and watched the people stampede along the barely-shoveled streets below.