Shep's tracks were seeping, causing his left forearm to stick to the sleeve of the Member's Only jacket that he just scored from the Catholic Charities clothing room.

Carefully, he rolled both sleeves up to his elbows, and checked the damage.

"Infected. Shit." He mumbled, as he made his way down Rush street, looking for a restroom to clean his wounds. He cursed himself for picking a "cool" jacket over a warm one. November nights in Chicago held nothing but bone chilling cold for…

Scarface Billy saw me before I saw him.

"Hey Roll-yer-own. What's up, tramp?"

I said "Hi" with my chin, and set my duffel down by his park-bench.



I didn't expect to see a familiar face in Portland when I crawled out of the boxcar that morning. Night Eyes was sleeping off a drunk under an over-pass when I slipped away and hopped a freight out of Seattle the night before. She wouldn't cry when she woke-up. Citizens cry. Tramps just move on.

Scarface aimed the neck…