It's too early to drink, meaning it's pretty much too early to be awake, and yet here he is—unshaved, unwashed, but clothed and flipping on the hall light. There's a barroom funk to the air, cigarettes and stale beer. Easy to imagine it rolling off him, this stringy-haired stranger with a drooping mustache. The improved lighting sure isn't doing him any favors.

He stares at her. A long unbroken moment—not lewd or even curious, really. More like he can't do otherwise. “Cohle.” His voice is low and steady. The drawl comes out—uncoiling like a snake—as he asks: “Who're you?”