He is lanky and blond. His hair is a disturbance of flames, a grease-fire that water might only make worse. Better to throw a damp cloth over it and he does, pulling up the purple hoodie and tightening the strings turning his face into a pale, pimpled moon with a blond and orange fu manchu. He bares his own teeth at his reflection in the gas station's bathroom mirror and shifts his feet in the brown puddle of melted snow, rock salt and pee-splash there on the stone floor half-covered by fraying beer-box cardboard.
"I look fucking homeless." He's not.
