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I put my hand on his shoulder. Physically, Nutsy was as hopeless as his situation. His matted, graying hair hadn't been subject to a comb in some time; it branches off in all directions. His camouflage pants were torn in both knees, and his pizza-and-beer-stained tee shirt bore a faded inscription that paid tribute to that cutting-edge rock band of the seventies, The Cowsills. He was barefoot, the soles of his feet as black as coals. His bloodshot eyes showed the full effects of two sleepless nights filled with bouts of self-pity.