The man was already dead drunk, having vomited filth all over the ground. The neighbors all kept their distance, and on this snowy day, nobody cared whether he would freeze to death on the street corner.
The street in the Sixth District was called Dwarf Street, lined with buildings no more than two stories tall, dangerous structures. The old drunkard sprawled on the ground was rarely sober, and familiar neighbors had initially tried to help him up, but when he sobered up, he would always make trouble, claiming something in his house had gone missing and trying to pin the blame on others. Over time, no one dared to meddle in this messy business anymore.
