he rides a rusty bikein the coldnight sliding like afishfrom alley to alley. He’s going upthe hill again. All he’s got on himbesideshis clothesand the bikeis a thermos filled withcoffee he got fromthe vending machineat the mall, coffee bought withmoney earnedfrom a day’s work ofstanding by the traffic lightsat the intersection,waiting for them to turnredand … Continuar leyendo “jars of bugs” by Bogdan Dragos