“Hey, shithead, this look like a fucking bed-and-breakfast to you?”
The voice was gruff, gravelly. At this hour, it had to be a cop, security guard, or maybe just an angry homeowner. Whoever it was, Tray Stouffer didn’t move within the folds of the musty quilt. Sometimes, when you’re still enough, they go away. Sometimes, they get bored.
The boot came again—fast, hard. Direct hit to the stomach.
Tray wanted to shout out, to grab the leg and fight back. Didn’t, though. Remained perfectly still.
“Goddamn it, I’m talking to you!”
Another kick, harder than the last, right in the ribs.
Tray grunted, couldn’t help it. Pulled the quilt tighter.
“Do you have any idea what you and your friends do to resale value when you camp out here? You scare the kids half to death. The older folk won’t leave the building. They shouldn’t have to step over a piece of garbage like you just to run to the store.”
Tray had heard it all before.
“Do you know what I’m doing out here at five in the morning while you’re taking a nap? While you’re all snug on our front stoop? I just got off a ten-hour shift at Delphine’s Bakery. Did twelve hours the night before in that devil’s asshole of a kitchen. Gotta go back in another ten. I do that to pay for this place. I do that to contribute. You’ll never catch me living on the streets like you lazy shits. Get a damn job! Make something of yourself!”
