I’m here at Beagle Island Park nearly every day, in hopes of seeing my dog—well, I guess, technically, he isn’t my dog anymore. Actually, he was never really my dog; we simply walked as a pack of two when we both hit rough patches in our lives. I’d wake up under a smoke shop’s eaves to his soft snoring in my face. He had the same color eyes as my pops; Pop always said he’d come back as a dog, so I figured, why not? Weirder things have happened.

I park my cart just outside the chain-link fence and sit beneath a densely branched fig tree. I just watch and listen. Those of us who live in the margins of society are basically invisible, so people never worry about what they do or say in front of us. The only time I was ever seen was when Pops was with me—and the watchers were always under the age of six.

Blades of grass glistening with dew leave little droplets of moisture…

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