Arthur Penhaligon considered his left sock a significant achievement. Three years ago, he hadn't even owned a sock. He'd existed, yes, a wisp of a man drifting through the periphery of other people's lives, a shadow with a persistent cough and an empty stomach. His worldly possessions could be comfortably housed in a discarded bread bag: a chipped mug, a bent spoon, and the gnawing emptiness that had