'Hey, ol' man.'
'Yo.' I glanced back. He was in the borderland between the rain and the shelter, leaning against a patch of soggy leaflets. About seventeen in years, six in height, and as skinny as a drenched cat. Tangled blond hair, defeated by the rain, plastered his scalp.
His black T-shirt was wet, as were his frayed and torn jeans and once- white running shoes. At his feet lay a deflated haversack caked with whatever it had been dragged through, probably since elementary school.
'Whatcha doin' out on a day like this.'
His flat voice matched the bored, couldn't care less put-on that went with his years. Squatting, he drew a soil-brown cloth from the haversack and toweled his head and neck.
'Library,' I said. 'Where's it at?'
He motioned with the cloth. 'Behind that one with the big windows. I'm headin' that way, too.' He looked up at the sky. 'Gonna let up in a coupla minutes. What're you gonna do in the library?'
'Check the latest Writer's Market and LMP.' I looked closer at him and repeated, 'LMP. Literary Market Place.'
'What'll they do for you?'
'Point me in the right direction.'