‘How you doing, Sam?’
The filthy sleeping bag rolled over.
‘Sam?’
‘Fuck off, I’m sleeping.’
‘It’d be warmer in the shelter … Sam? Why’re you doing this to yourself?’
‘No judgements; didn’t they tell you that in the training?’
‘I’m concerned about you.’
‘I don’t need your pity.’
‘It isn’t pity, Sam.’
‘Fuck off, do-gooder.’
‘It’s already below freezing.’
‘I’m fine here.’
‘It’s going snow later.’
‘Then I’ll make myself an igloo.’
‘Not before hypothermia sets in.’
‘Then I guess that’s how I’ll go.’
‘I can’t leave you here, Sam.’
‘Then it’ll be my last stand; you and the weather.’
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.
1 comment:
Now you've made me curious about Same, Rob. I have to wonder how he got to this point, and why he doesn't seem to want help. You paint a strong picture of rough sleeping, too. Well done
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