Her loud snores would bring her halfway through the curtain of awareness and she'd look for the runner. She turned her head and hawked a great gob of tobacco-brown spit out in an arc above the railing. Splatters fell like
Roman Candle sparks in flight.
Yolanda didn't want any more trouble. She focused on the western sky. Maybe the man had his own worries. Maybe he was hungry. She wasn't sure it was a man that bobbed through the shimmering heatwave of road though it was likely. No woman ran so alone and free.
