The smell of coffee reached me before the sound of voices did.
At first, I thought I was still dreaming. The scent was familiar now, which irritated me even before I opened my eyes. Somehow, over the course of only a few mornings, Timothy Anderson and coffee had become connected in my mind, and I did not like that one bit. Familiar things had a way of becoming expected, and expectations were dangerous. They made people soft in places where life had already taught them to be hard.
I shifted on the concrete bench and immediately felt the usual protest from my back and shoulders. Sleeping outside never became easier. My body simply learned how to complain in new ways. I kept my eyes closed for another few seconds, hoping to hold on to the last thin edge of sleep, but the voices nearby made
