Each day begins with the Claxton. It wakes him from his sleep. It tells him to work. It sends him home. It is the only structure of time, something he can not even feel occurring, that exists for him. Even then, everywhere he turns there are those boxes that collect his blood as payment for his needs and desires. They pull at him hungry for this blood. The pain is unbearable, but it must be taken if he is to eat, ride the train, even enter his own apartment.He has no memory of how ...