She pops up randomly around Union Square, usually guarding one of the various entrances to the subway. As weary working saps ascend the stairs to their morning jobs, she greets them with a practiced and cheerful refrain.

"I have four different kinds of cancer�"

She then proceeds to read off a litany of illnesses she claims to suffer from. Everything from blood mites, to detestable-face syndrome. Her intolerable rasp of a voice flows like sandpaper over my ears, catching me at unsuspecting moments. A hobo ambush striking out of the noon sun's shadow.

"...emphazima, black-lung, cat-scratch fever..."

Death is not walking; it's standing by the Food Emporium, asking for spare change.