awrighton

2019 The scratched ridges of the coins dig into my palm as I hold them protectively against my heaving chest. I lean up again the broken brick wall of a building, trying to catch my breath. I want to hold my ears: the sirens always needle at my eardrums when I come this far into town—even during the day. I bite my bottom lip, opening my palm and looking at the sweat warmed coins. I count carefully: one, two, three dollars. Taking a deep breath, All there. I peer around the side of the building towards the road: the same destruction, no people, Good. Okay, on the count of three: one—two—three! I dash from the side of building,