There was always a man on the corner of 11th and Dawning. He’d panhandle, and Malcolm figured the man to be a professional at doing so.
The man was short–maybe five feet from the ground–and had a thick beard very short and very black in colour. As for what was on the man’s head, Malcolm didn’t know, as he never saw the man without a hood covering whatever lay underneath, if anything at all. The man reached an open hand to Malcolm as he passed, and Malcolm brushed the man off.
Broken river ice raced downstream while Malcolm sat in awe letting his time pass. A golden sun reflected off the water as if it were reflecting off a mirror. Mal thought on why he worked in The West when he didn’t have to. He considered why he consistently dealth with Ben’s pestering. To either thought Malcolm couldn’t muster an answer. He let his thoughts hang on how it was ducks could deal with the certainly ice-cold river water, given the ice drifting through the water threateningly-so.
Ducks, Malcolm thought. To be a duck.