The tang of oil, cut with dust. No hint of burning. More importantly, no blood. Probably safe.
Tap. Tap. Duff.
Something soft in the doorway.
I crouch. Feels like a coat. Empty pockets. Rough untorn wool. Probably stained, but who’ll notice?
The shutter judders, but locks eventually.
I borrow the last of the coffee and huddle under my new acquisition. The chill still bites. Another reason to miss Snoop.
I risk the radio. The same emergency broadcast: Stay in your home. Don’t look at the symbols.
Almost out of cans. Should I head for the country? Are there blind farmers?