The humid New Orleans air hung thick and heavy, a fragrant blend of beignets, jasmine, and something vaguely… metallic. For Adrian Moreau, it tasted like desperation. He strummed a melancholic chord on his battered acoustic guitar, the sound swallowed somewhat by the boisterous chatter of tourists and the rumble of horse-drawn carriages on Decatur Street. His fingers, once nimble and strong from centuries of… well, from everything, now ached with a dull, persistent throb.