It was late when he stepped outside of Allied. The door creaked shut, muting the barâs loud music and replacing it with the sounds of Brooklyn at night: a car alarm going off on a distant street, conversations happening on the sidewalk. The pavement was dyed crimson in the glow of the bar sign, and everyone standing beneath itâ smokers, friends of smokers who didnât mind polluted airâ looked strangely lurid, bathed in blood, like extras in a Stephen King movie. Now that his own friends had dispersed (making excuses to head home long before last call; how boring everyone was, now that they all felt the need to act like adults), Julius was planning to smoke a cigarette and scroll through his phone, playing a speedy game of contact roulette to see where he might end up tonight. Only when his hand slipped into his empty back pocket did he remember: he'd finished the last of his Galouises this morning. Fuck. His brows dove together. At least in Williamsburg, heâd had that bodega on the corner of 10th and Wythe and the little European grocery store right next to the Bedford subway, reliable vendors of French cigarettes that only Julius seemed to be buying. Here in Crown Heights, the name elicited blank stares from bodega owners. Might as well have been asking if they sold FabergĂŠ eggs. But whatever, heâd make the trip to Williamsburg tomorrow and buy out whatever supply he could find; the more pressing matter was needing a cigarette now, so Julius turned to the person closest to him on the sidewalk, who was busy lighting up behind their cupped palm. âHey, cigarette for a dollar?â There was an etiquette to follow; you could ask for a light and expect it for free, but bumming a smoke meant a fair exchange. Cigarettes were too precious a commodity to just give away. When the open carton was held out, Julius selected one of the sticks from inside (God, what were these, Camels? Pall Malls? Too dark to really tell; maybe for the best) with a muttered âthanksâ, sticking it between his lips and ignoring the lighter that was also extended. He fished instead for his ownâ and after sparking the plastic Bic, kept the flame wavering till the cigarette caught and then dragged deep, welcoming the familiar burn into his lungs. The wind took the smoke away from his mouth in a thin stream. Besides him, the person was still waiting. Julius looked at them without fully turning his face, rebuffing the expectant gaze with a single, arched eyebrow. âOh, I donât have a dollar. Sorry. Used all my small bills on tips.â