Since some new subscribers have come on board since this was published, and since it’s cold again, really cold, I thought I would republish this piece.
In the small strip of grass between the Dairy Queen parking lot and the back of the pawn shop there’s a figure under a blanket in a chair wedged between two gray grocery carts crammed with twisted and bunched-up clothing, battered cardboard boxes, unpaired laceless shoes, plastic shopping bags stuffed with more plastic bags. A dark blue towel hangs from the handle of one of the carts. Neon yellow safety vests swaddle a green milk crate behind the chair. A toddler’s pink ride-on toy car tilts up on two wheels against some nearby cement blocks. That’s all I can discern in the thin, fading winter light. It’s dusk. It’s January. It’s about sixteen degrees outside. The figure shifts, leans to the right, readjusts, resettles, settles in. Next day in the small strip of grass between the car wash and the hardware store there’s a blanket on the chair wedged between the grocery carts. No towel, no toddler toy car. Nobody home. It’s about seven degrees outside.
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She has moved to another camp. She came in the DQ one afternoon while was there, made a real ruckus, and said she was leaving.
What happened to the person?