This week started good, and Wolfgang is trying to hold on to that. They got their meds. They found a place to stay after getting kicked out of the shelter — you're only allowed to stay 30 days, and those 30 days had been torturous, those places are not safe by any stretch of the imagination, but no women's shelter would take them — so it's nice to have a private room.
Problem: said place is exorbitantly expensive — it's New York, and the hotel offered a discounted weekly rate, but it wiped out all the cash Wolfgang had and they're very unsure of their ability to pay for next week. Chances are, they won't. Meds, also ridiculously expensive on top of hard to find. Not much of an underground market for antipsychotics.
They haven't eaten since yesterday. Wolfgang has 72 cents; the cheapest thing on the menu is a cookie, which costs 40 cents. Wolfgang is trying to scrounge another 30 cents for a burger or decide if the cookie is worth getting (a calorie is a calorie) or if maybe they should hold on to their money in case they find a quarter on the ground or in a payphone or something. They were so focused on this that when they hear a voice below them they jump and nearly drop all their money on the floor.
Wolfgang is very tall and very thin, but gaunt-thin, like they're sick. They look tired; there are dark circles under their wide dark eyes. (The cashier is, in fact, getting impatient; he's tapping his finger on the screen.) “I — sorry,” they mumble, sidling a few steps away, face turning away, faintly red. “You go ahead. Sorry.”