The smell of effluent and refuse waft up making me crinkle my nose. At least I don’t gag any more. The house is awake as evidenced by the clanking of pots and rumble of the flush. Discordant strains of guitar blend with the brawl of a little child. Well, sleeping was definitely out of the picture now. Might as well get up before the hot water runs out.
I go wait by the toilet. Miguel steps out. “Hey man! I hear they are hiring at Randy’s. I’m heading there. You coming?”
“Sure man,” I reply. “Just give me five.”
Randy’s was hard work, but the pay was fair, and he usually threw in lunch. Better get there before word spreads. I relieve myself, wash off last evening’s grime, and hop into my only pair of not-torn jeans.
The baby is still crying. “What’s up Sal? Did you take her to the clinic?” I ask.
“They gives me a refill for her inhaler. They asking me to move to dry housing. Where I go with no money?”
I nod my head. There is nothing that I can do for her. No words of comfort that I can offer. And I got to get to Randy’s.
In response to the Sunday Photo Fiction challenge of 10th September based on a photo by A Mixed Bag 2013