Stiles's mostly sleepless night of tossing and turning around on an unfamiliar cot does not for a good morning make, though as far as he's concerned, it's better than having to get up for lacrosse practice. He'd followed most of the people as they started their daily routine, slowing for the occasional display: some were ads, but far more of them were familiar slogans about the City, and the Computer that ran it until he'd reached the commissary.

There, he tries to find a seat; walking around, catching the occasional snatch of conversation, though the subjects rarely mean anything to him. He should pick a spot eventually, but he doesn't want to end up sitting somewhere with a prior claim.