I’ve been cold and wet for so long that it feels like being warm and dry is some lie conjured up by a demon for the torture of the displaced.

The bridges are all patrolled by the police as part of the new mayor’s urban renewal program. Things don’t have to get better, they just have to look better. It keeps us trash out of sight, keeps the rich people happy, and give the cops something to do which doesn’t involve corruption. They swing by on regular patrols, running us off, keeping us from sleeping anywhere dry. Some of them can be pretty rough about it and you can’t tell which pair are riding in the patrol car until they get out. I’m not a fan of having my retinas scorched out with mace, bones broken by batons, or having my nervous system overloaded with electricity.

I move. I hope to dry off. I see the pigs. I move again. I trudge along under showers of icy water to the next bridge. Like a troll, I live beneath bridges in a life of darkness and waterlogged misery while people gaze on me with disgust.