The vagabonds were not pleased to see George. Most turned away, went back into their tents or their boxes or whatever structures they had made for themselves. Those who didn’t glared at George with unmasked fury. Hatred. Resentment. They might as well have been holding up neon signs.

George stared at his feet as he walked, trusting muscle memory to get him to his destination. Each pair of eyes he didn’t see was one less that could burn him with their anger. Each gaze he avoided was one that would not try to pierce into his soul.

Finally, George reached the welcoming structure of his own home, a repurposed camping tent off in a corner. Gratefully, he climbed inside his canvas shield, hiding away from the fury that threatened to consume him.