I woke up across the seat of a rust-bitten F-100, reeking of last night’s Old Milwaukee and someone else’s cigarette smoke. My wallet was gone, but my headache wasn’t. Outside, the neon buzz of a liquor store flickered in and out like a dying heartbeat. I had five bucks in my sock. Enough for a pack of smokes or a cheap cup of coffee. Not both.
I picked the coffee. The clerk looked like he’d been up since the '80s. He eyed me like a man who’s seen enough losers to know another one when he walks in. “Rough night?”
I laughed, took my coffee, and stepped back into the cold. No home, no job, no plan. Just another night in a city that doesn’t care if I breathe or choke.
I lit a cigarette anyway.
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