They enter the place, Mark sliding open the large doors. It used to be a music venue--way, way, way a long time ago, and there are still posters on the wall that people had forgotten to put down once they hastily constructed the apartments. There's a tent city outside, the view horribly dingy save for the neon sign of the Cat Scratch, but it's home.

There's almost nothing valuable, though. Art lining the walls--some Mark's photography, some Maureen's canvas work, some Angel's designs--even Joanne has a small doodle up since she's part of the family. There's a large hole in the ceiling with a piece of tarp over it, an illegal wood-burning stove and a large oil drum procured via probably morally grey means for the winter.

It's summer, though, so all of the windows are open. Mark parks his bike in the corner and makes a beeline for the mismatched sets of couches and chairs, grabbing bottles and hastily cleaning up. It's not like they'd expected guests--most of them just practically live here, anyway. The fact that there's a couch with pillows and blankets made up constantly says enough.

The most expensive thing there, though--save for a slightly pricey fender guitar propped up against the coffee table---is a film projector and a small round of audio and visual equipment. It's busted, old, and second-hand but it's still something worth selling so Mark can help Roger out. Roger, who was still trying to go up the stairs by himself.

"Help yourself to, uh..." Nothing. Water? "Make yourself at home," Mark says instead. Flops onto a couch, motions for Billy to join in right next to him. "I can't believe you're doing this, you're incredible. Hey, do you mind if I film this? I want to get the look on Roger's face--" And he's bounding up again. "--It's part of a piece I'm working on documenting the human condition."