A Home for Christmas

*

It's fucking freezing.

The streets of Jersey are covered with snow, and Frank doesn't have gloves. His hoodie barely protects him, and he knows he'll feel like shit tomorrow morning.

But it's already too late, and all the shelters in the area are packed, so Frank will have to find somewhere else to sleep tonight. He considers walking a few more blocks, to that abandoned building, but he's too cold to keep going.

'C'mon, Pencey,' he calls the lap dog that follows him. Frank isn't sure if it's a rat or a dog, but he's his only companion. Frank found him a couple months ago, when he started following him after he fed him some of his food, and now they're inseparable.

Frank walks to the alley behind the Mexican restaurant and an apartment building, under the stairwell. If he waits long enough, he knows some of the restaurant staff will come out at some point and offer him and Pencey food. And if he knows exactly where to hide, he knows no one will bother him. At least for tonight.

Frank's been homeless long enough to know the way to survive is taking it one day at a time. Which shelters to go, and how to avoid the cops. He also knows not to trust everyone, and that sometimes it's better to be by himself.

He sits under a stairwell, wrapping himself in a blanket he stole from the last shelter he stayed at, his most valuable possession, besides Pencey. He soon starts to fall asleep, knowing he'll probably freeze to death one of these days, because it's not enough.

That's his only way out of this life, and better sooner than later. He doesn't know how if he can survive another winter. Not without getting super sick, and his immune system finally giving up. It's a miracle he's made it this long.

But he doesn't have the energy to keep fighting.

*

Frank can hear his stomach rumbling. He can't remember when he last ate, but it's been days.

His cold is getting worse and worse, and the last thing he wants to do is to get up and look for something to eat, but he knows his dog is hungry too.

He's been staying in a tent someone left in a parking lot for the last couple days, but he doesn't want to test his fate, and he knows it's time to find somewhere else before either the owner of said tent comes back, or worse, the cops.

He sits outside a restaurant, knowing that people hate seeing a dog go hungry, and that at some point, someone will bring food for Pencey. But Pencey's is usually nice enough to share with Frank. Now that his stomach is full, Frank doesn't feel as shitty.

It's hard to find shelter that let him take his dog with him, so he keeps looking for a place to stay the night.

That's what he does. Surviving. Somehow.

He looks for whatever he can eat, a place to sleep. Plays with his dog to keep himself distracted. And then, he moves to the next place. He doesn't even know why he keeps going. He's given up so many times, and for some reason he's still alive.

He cuddles up in his almost paper thin blanket, hugging his backpack tight, and Pencey sleeping by his feet, trying to get some sleep. Which is hard with his nose stuffed up this bad, and the cold, but it's not like he has anything else to do.

The next morning, another man sits nearby, though Frank isn't totally sure he's dead. 'You look like shit, dude,' the man says.

Hopefully not as bad as you, Frank thinks. 'Thanks.'

'I think you need some of this,' the guy says, grinning, clearly high on some shit. Frank's not sure exactly what, but it's bad.

Frank's been there before.