Charleston rattles up out of the grave on a cool summer night, curious to see how changed is the world. He grasps at cool clumps of grass with slender phalanges, he pulls himself up to his patellas, he stands to wobble on his calcinea.
The neighborhood is different: dirtier, shabbier. A car lies at the curb stripped to its frame; Charleston knows the feeling.
He rings doorbells, knocks on doors, but there is no answer. There's no one left here who wants to know him. He turns and clatters back to his headstone. He has no skin in the game.