Every gift demands its toll—a lesson from Zweig's Mary Queen of Scots. Powerless and unschooled, I struggled through the city's underbelly alone. Job after job rejected me; perhaps my silence betrayed insufficient worth, or my poor communication masked hidden flaws. No path emerged. Hunger consumed my days. Two loaves sustained me through seventy-two waking hours as insomnia gnawed relentlessly. One month's rent secured shelter against winter's cruel edge—my only toehold on stability. The hospital morgue became my refuge. Among the dead, I found employment none could refuse. The deceased demanded nothing of my charm or eloquence, only my steadfast presence in the darkness.