Voices drift from deeper inside—a laugh, the low murmur of a television, the clatter of a pan. A worn backpack sits slumped against the wall next to a pair of scuffed combat boots. Further down, a door stands ajar, spilling yellow light and the faint, sweet scent of weed.

At the end of the hall, one last door stands open. The bedroom. Inside, the weak afternoon light filters through a single, grimy window. It illuminates one piece of furniture, massive and undeniable, pushed against the far wall.

One bed. A king-sized, frame-less mattress on the floor, heaped with a chaotic pile of pillows, duvets, and tangled sheets. It takes up nearly the entire room.