PHOTO PROMPT © Anshu Bhojnagarwala
‘You must dry off, or you’ll catch your death.’ The homeless guy beckons me to the fire with stubby, soot black fingers.
Crows feet deep as cuts, weathered skin – he could be in his seventies, or ten years younger, hard to tell. The street does that to you.
The drenching has me shivering and the autumn wind cuts across the river, knife sharp. Hypothermia is a real danger.
‘Thank you,’ I say, giving him my best little-girl-lost smile.
He offers me a blanket that stinks of rats and body odour.
I accept it gratefully, hide the knife in its folds.