Through the cracks between the floorboard slats I saw his thin fingers thumbing open his pack of smoking papers and flicking open his tobacco tin. He delicately laid a single sheet of paper on the palm of his hand, cupping it gently against his half-curled fingers. He lined a row of stringy tobacco against the edge, pressing it into shape. My nose ran at the acrid memory of the scent, though I couldn’t smell the dark, neat pile from where I sat now. I sucked in my breath and watched.