Up three narrow flights of stairs, behind a well-locked door, Robert Chase's nearly empty studio apartment doesn't look as if he's been occupying it for the last several years. The pale blue tint on the walls was chosen by a previous tenant, and appears dingy. A crucifix hangs at the head of a twin bed, made with monastic precision. At the other end of the bed is a chest of drawers, enamelled bright blue and white and sporting random decals of glittering spaceships and green aliens, courtesy of a past life elsewhere. Atop it perches a cheap stereo with an alarm clock built in. That's the only thing on the bureau; his modest CD collection lives in the top drawer of the chest with combs and pens and spare change and the usual detritus of normal life. Several travel posters featuring scenes of Australia hang in a neat row on the far wall, but Robert feels no sense of home when he looks at them. A molting chintz armchair occupies a corner near the only window. There's a battered bookcase under the window, contents aligned by size, mostly thrillers, and the occasional self-help book, gathering dust.