Tent

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Tent

He shivered. The canvas rippled loudly as yet another frigid wind ripped at the tent door. The man buried his hands under his arms, desperate to find any warmth he could muster. It felt like he was waking up every few minutes but it was impossible to tell. His watch had broken long ago, and the total darkness in the small space didn't help.

Buried under a ragged dirt covered sheet and old copies of the paper the man's shaking rustled the nest constantly. The beard on his face hiding a furrowed brow and pockmarked skin. Angrily red from the time spent weathering the storm of life. His lot had made him cunning, and he spent his time panhandling and finding anything to make nighttime bearable.

His portable shelter elevated him above others who had to risk tickets and fines by sleeping in more public spaces. With his tent he could slip out into the woods where the sight of the stars and noises of animals kept him company. Despite being homeless and cold, the quiet calmed his worries. Animals avoided his presence mostly, but he still watched them in the morning if they were near.

Another bluster wrinkled his tent. Its cords straining against the pegs pushed into the ground. With no idea what time it was, and the cold refusing to let his exhausted body rest, he waited for the wind to stop. Curling into the fetal position, the man hugged his knees to his chest and waited for the light of day.

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