On a cold January morning on the Boulevard de Sébastopol in the 3rd arrondissement of Paris, four young African men in puffer coats are posted hoods-up at the four corners of the crossroads with the Boulevard Saint-Martin. Sentries for drug dealers, they scan the commuters emerging from the Métro and the McDonald’s, watch the alternating flows of traffic for police cars, and rub their hands for warmth. Down the boulevard by the Café Central, a transgender Asian prostitute leans against a boarded-up pharmacy in leather boots and a dirty COVID mask. Across the road, a knot of elderly African men in ill-fitting overcoats stamp their feet as they smoke the first cigarette of the day in the boules park before La Gaîté Lyrique theater.