The rain was hard and he had to put towels down at the cracks where the tiny streams tried to flow across his sleeping room. He listened to the rain pelting down on the tin roof and was happy that he didn’t have to go to work that day. He picked up the throw rugs from the concrete floor and changed towels every hour or two. The couch he slept on was up on wooden blocks and the kitchen floor was elevated by worn linoleum tiles; there’d have to be a downpour to flood out the kitchen.The rain seemed to get harder for a moment; the sound of water cascading over the drainpipe and crashing on the old barrel on the other side of his wall. Then it stopped. A gust maybe. But he hadn’t heard the wind. Then the sound again. Not exactly water on the barrel. It was a little too hard.The sound came back twice more before Socrates realized that it was knocking at his back door, the only working door.He rarely had guests in good weather; never in the rain.The boy was standing there, soaking wet.“Hey, Darryl,”
What do You think about Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned (Socrates Fortlow 1)?
