Isiah wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and huddled in the doorway of the old Taco Bell — ten years closed–the chains on its doors were rusted; even hard metal didn’t survive in this part of town. Isiah's dirty sneakers were losing their soles, and as he moved his feet they flapped like open mouths, his toes like many-flanged tongues.
He imagined saying “Help” to a passerby. Maybe, “Few bucks for a warm meal?” But there were no passersby, here, and if they came, they would keep walking without a second glance, or even a thought in their minds.
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