He spent most days in dive bars, drifting from one cracked vinyl booth to another, or, when the mood struck, in whatever alley offered the right combination of shadow and rain-slicked concrete. It was in one such alley, behind the Flora's Diner just off 17th, that Susan Evans stumbled upon him.
Susan had a voice like warm honey and a habit of being late to everything: Classes, meetings, even her own birthday parties. She was trying to take a shortcut home from her shift at the clinic when she saw the crumpled shape at the edge of a dumpster. At first, she thought he was dead. She hesitated, then nudged his boot with the toe of her sneaker.
He groaned, rolled over, and looked up at her with a glassy stare. "Don't steal my shoes," he muttered, then passed out again.
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