"What did you just say?" Barry said, grabbing his walker.
  "Hello, fellow. Come on."
  Barry followed him, feeling played like a Casio keyboard.
  The insides of the rooms were so small, and Chronic's was like some perpetual garage sale. Chronic eyed Barry suspiciously as he picked up a photograph of a battlefield with a Post-it marked "lunch." Among the stack of old newspapers, were scrapbooks and scraps to be booked. Spine-cracked edition of The Dozens on Time by G.L. Washington. His alarm clock, stopped at 12:05.
  "Mind if I wind this?" asked Barry.