First message
The streetlight above me flickered, buzzing like an angry wasp. I sat cross-legged on the cold pavement, back pressed against the crumbling wall of some abandoned building. My notebook rested in my lap, pages crinkled and stained, but still mine. Still alive.
I tightened my grip on the pencil, scrawling words in the dim light, my fingers so numb I barely felt them move.
“Dreams are a currency the homeless spend too freely / trading hope for a moment’s shelter…”
I scratched the line down before the thought could slip away.
The wind picked up, rattling an empty soda can down the sidewalk. I pulled my hood tighter, hunching over the page like a starving thing guarding its last scrap of food.
Then I heard it — footsteps, light, hesitant — and a voice.
“Hey… are you okay?”