Rocked awake.

He rocks under a gentle force, and feels a hand on his shoulder, delicately oscillating him awake.

“Sir, you need to get off now. Last stop of the night.”

She sounds kind. He opens his eyes and there is fog. But now, as it clears, he sees a round, middle-aged face.

He tries to ask her the time.

“It’s the end of the line. End of the service for today.”

She hasn’t understood.

He can’t feel his left arm where he’s slept on top of it. He tries to rise, but the fog has seeped from his eyes to his bones.

He tries to say something, but he’s not sure what.

“You’re at Paddington,” she says. “There’s a shelter round the corner. You know it?”

She thinks he’s nodding, and feels ok about not asking anything further.

The feeling in his arm is returning now, and he pushes himself upwards, and as he does so his fingers touch something small and soft.

He looks down.

A wallet.

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