It’s that time of day when the lights swell. Especially the red ones. Sometimes he pitches up near traffic lights and stays for hours just to look at them.
He did it the other day. That was when the man, an elderly man he was, wound down his window and threw his cigarette at him.
Neil doesn’t know what it was about that, and pulls his collar up against the cold and shuffles on top of the cardboard and repositions his back against the bricks.
What was it about that? The man was old and looked like his grandfather.
That must be why he cried. It was so unlike him. In seven years living rough he can’t remember crying once.
It must be the cold.
He shuffles again.
It’s colder this year.