It wasn’t dark. Yet. At this point the whole city was on spring break — barkeeps passed out lukewarm beer, battery-operated radios blasted Beyoncé, and couples danced and kissed through layers of grimy sweat. It was an al fresco club, the lighting provided by streams of cars pushing uptown.

Alyse and I sat on the sidewalk at 87th and Madison, trying to fashion a bottle opener from rocks. "Can’t you do that with keys?" she asked. But all I had was the plastic hotel key; the one that wouldn’t even let us in the room. I doubted it had a secret life as an Amstel Light opener.

The sky was smeared with blood-orange streaks. Sunset. Something not often seen in New York. Tonight, though, it was stunning, dripping in long waves across the powerless concrete giants. It was a cosmic apology, a goodbye kiss. Yet beyond the beauty was a reminder that night was falling and still, no lights.

The thick heat had crept between my legs and under my arms; my lips swelled from lack of water. The complimentary beer and vodka that had seemed like such a great idea were now kicking my skull and mocking my stupidity.

Fellow refugees urinated and defecated behind the miles of trash awaiting Friday pick-up; the smell ripened under the humidity. I swallowed the vomit rising in my throat.

"We need to start walking," slurred Alyse.

"It’s over three miles away." I steadied myself against a wall. "No way. No way."

"Whaddya wanna do then?" She grabbed my arm. The smell had smashed into her face, knocking her over.

I didn’t know.

At some point we ended up on the stairs of a church. A group of guys made room for us against the iron doors. Even the metal was hot. Someone flipped open a cell phone. It was 2 a.m.: eerily quiet, murderously dark. In droves, night creatures followed the lure of human waste. This was their time.

The streets were littered with families, businessmen, tourists ... all forced to sleep in this urban campground, to join the ranks of those who lived this way every day, except that the newcomers dreamt that tomorrow they would be back in their hotel or penthouse or crib.

A drunken man tripped over a trash can and landed flat on his back. No one stirred to help him. He flapped like a turtle for a few seconds, and then stopped.

"Hey," he yelled. "You can see the fucking stars!"

And then I fell asleep.