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He glances around, and then cautiously turns down an alley. There's a spot here, in the angle formed by two walls: he might be able to snatch a few hours' sleep.
Tomorrow – today now – is the thirtieth. Saturday. He's got enough change in his pockets for two cups of tea – one Saturday, one Sunday. Load them with sugar, for the calories, and that's breakfast. Lunch … walk, same as today. Dinner, a cup of hot water with a sachet or two of sauce, call it tomato soup. Just two more days, then it will be the first of the month and his pension will be in. Just two more days. Not that long.
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homeless
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