“Sorry, were you sleeping?”
He stirs between a cradle of dented garbage cans, a manger of tetanus and drooping newspaper, squinting in disorientation as her scant frame quadruples like a string of paper cut-outs. Something not unlike a death rattle can be heard in response, leather squealing as he tries to maneuver from the two aluminum jaws, cognition turning over and failing like an old car.
“Iggy?” Robert eventually mutters, cringing against cottonmouth, “No…I think someone gave me something…I don’t remember. Got anything to make me feel better?”
@igguanapop














