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Strangers
He imagined saying “Help” to a passerby.
Isiah wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and huddled in the doorway of the old Taco Bell — ten years closed; even the chains didn’t survive in this part of town. He felt like a broken toy, discarded. Dirty sneakers, losing their soles, like open mouths with his toes like many-flanged tongues.
He imagined saying “Help” to a passerby. Maybe, “Few bucks for a warm meal?” But there were no passersby, here, and if they came, they would keep walking without a second glance, or even a thought in their minds.
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