York stumped along, trailing smoke and favoring his left leg. He nodded to Cinci in passing.
“How’s it going?” York said.
Cinci shrugged. She scratched at a patch of windows. A tiny figure was dislodged and fell, screaming tinnily. “Been better.”
“My health, you know.” She covered her mouth and burped, sending a cloud of smog skyward. “I think it’s the light rail. It just doesn’t agree with me.”
“Ah, well, it’s good in the long run,” said York. “Me, it’s these darned suburbs.” He shook his leg to demonstrate. Several houses fell off and tinkled to the ground.
The Shoveller Of Widdecombe Ditch (Trad.)
17 hours ago