A man in acid-washed jeans and an unwrinkled purple button-up shirt walks away from Chris’, the neighborhood market. His curly hair is matted on one side, but his round face is clean-shaven. He carries a bottle in a plain brown bag in one hand. On his other arm rides a blue bird the size of a toddler, head up like a beauty queen. Both are quiet. It is 7 a.m. on Tuesday.

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