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When the weather was good, I actually preferred these kinds of trash piles. They were inconspicuous, and you could hear Them coming up on you. A house or a competently built tent; these weren't shelters. They were targets. What I wanted for a night's accommodation was a hiding space.

Even the smallest hideaway had its history. Love letters. Shell casings. Children's toys. Environmental storytelling, they called it in video games. Sometimes a happy ending, sometimes just a suggestion.

Charlie pulled aside some branches.

"Shit."

Tragedy this time. Three hours light left. We set to make the home into a grave.

Copyright (c) 2021 by Hugh Mackey