Downpour
Snowman awakens to booming thunder and a fierce wind. He scrambles from a metal bed frame, seizes the sheet he sleeps under, and dashes to a makeshift island of car tires he assembled in the forest, crouching on them for insulation as hail the size of golf balls pelts the canopy. The storm rattles branches, pours down in a heavy deluge that turns the air to mist, and fills the forest with the scent of wet leaves and earth. When the rain eases to a drizzle and the thunder subsides, Snowman pads back to his cement‑slab cache to retrieve a pile of empty beer bottles. He then climbs to a jagged concrete overhang—remnant of a bridge—where a triangular orange “Men at Work” sign still hangs. He cups his mouth under the overhang, gulping water choked with grit, twigs, and unknown debris, imagining it has the taste of beer. After drinking, he washes his sheet, noting it remains only superficially clean and wishing he had soap or a better container than slippery bottles. He muses about the futility of his cravings, likening himself to a caged lab animal forced to conduct pointless experiments on his own brain. A child‑like, snivelling voice erupts inside him, pleading for someone to listen, which he then condemns as a bad performance. He begins to weep, recalling a line from an imagined book urging him to ignore minor irritants and focus on immediate realities. He wipes his face on the sheet, repeats “pointless repinings” aloud, and feels an unseen listener hidden behind the leaves, watching him.