Tough | Hobo

"You’re leaking heat, kid," Artie rasped. His voice sounded like gravel in a blender.

Artie didn't argue. He just moved. He didn't have a heater or a thermal blanket. He had a stack of old Sunday Gazettes he’d scavenged in the last yard. hobo tough

"I'm... I'm fine," the kid gasped, his fingernails already turning a bruised purple. "You’re leaking heat, kid," Artie rasped

Artie’s hand, calloused and strong as a vice, clamped onto the kid’s shoulder. "Stay. If you jump now, the frost finishes what the fall starts. We’re ghosts, kid. Be the shadow." "You’re leaking heat

He stepped off the grainer, his joints popping like dry kindling, and started walking toward the nearest treeline. He wasn't looking for a home; he was just looking for the next fire.