Wet, penetrating, chilling. On your knees, you scramble into the shelter of the cardboard tent at the dark end of the alley around the corner from Jones and O’Farrell. You hug yourself and listen intently. Nothing unusual about the night noises of the city around you, the foghorn out in San Francisco Bay a recurring mournful bellow. Still, you’re unconvinced that something hasn’t followed you back here again and is lurking somewhere in the thick mist. A trash can rattles at the end of the alley, and you hear a cat screech. A moment later, a furry blur streaks by the front of your tent. You are unable to suppress a shudder of relief. Carefully, you slip the recently purchased half pint of Wild Irish Rose from the pocket of your field jacket and unscrew the cap. In three long pulls, the bottle is emptied. The cheap whisky burns all the way down, bringing tears to your eyes. After a moment, you slump down on your grimy blanket, reaching inside your shirt and squeezing the medallion on the chain around your neck for comfort.
