The rain was soaking into his shoes. There were holes in the bottom, and if he wiggled his toe he could poke it through. And they were too small, pinching his feet, and falling apart; they used to be designer, clean and smart, and now they were grey and battered, barely holding together.
A young man stepped out from against the wall, and leant over towards the car window.
“No can do man. The guy in charge isn't real friendly, you know? And with a fondness for sharp pointy things I don't wanna get on his bad side. You not got anywhere to go?”
“I used to like the rain when I was a kid,” he said, remembering the six year old he used to be wearing a duffel coat and red Wellington boots, “used to go jumping in all the puddles, you know? My mum used to go mental, but I used to love it. And now I just think it's a nuisance, means I'm gonna get cold and wet and won't properly dry out for weeks.”
He locked himself into a stall in a grime covered toilet block, located a clean syringe, a lighter, a small bottle of citric acid and a spoon from where he had wedged it down the back of the cistern that morning.