Harold

The drain grate rattled as he put his weight on it.

“Oh Harold, Harold, Harold. What have we done?”, Harold knelt and dabbed at the bars with a handkerchief.

“Just so, just so,” the cloth came back with dabs of dark red, “just so.”

He heaved himself up and brushed his hands on his jacket, leaving dark stains.

“A new suit when I find you son, least you owe…” it was dark, but the street lights caught the glitter of something piled in a shop doorway. It had the appearance of a sleeping tramp covered in the morning dew. The cane probed gently and with no resistance, instead sinking into the foamy mass of hair and skin. “It seems you already have.”