Beyond the door, Sunny found herself in another alleyway: a dingy, dirty, trash-strewn narrow passage between two forbidding brick walls that stretched ahead of her into darkness.  Here and there she could see the massive metal doors of a loading dock, or the graffitti-emblazoned back door to some business or other.  The odd dumpster hunkered in the gloom along the way.<br/><br/>As she watched, a light flickered on about forty feet in front of her, a sickly yellow streetlight that barely took the edge off.  Still, it was enough for her to see where she'd be putting her feet if she went forward.<br/><br/>A rattling reached her ears--unmistakeably the sound of someone shaking a can of spray paint.  A moment later, she caught a thin, high voice singing familiar words.  Probably a girl, by the pitch, and she was off-key in a carelessly cheerful sort of way.  Sunny couldn't see the singer, but the voice was coming from the direction of a dumpster at the far side of the streetlamp's anemic glow.<br/><br/>"Ain't no rest for the wicked, money don't grow on trees.<br/>I got bills to pay, I got mouths to feed, there ain't nothing in this world for freeeeee..."<br/><br/>Followed by the swish of paint being applied.