This guy standing outside my building, narrow, stooped shoulders, pinched face, kinda squirrely looking, squints at me as I leave for the day.
He makes eye contact through the smoke from his ratty-looking hand-rolled cigarette, and steps up, way too close, saying, "My phone is broken. Do you know what time it is?"
A cold bolt of adrenaline hits my stomach as I check my watch (careful, now, not to touch or even gesture toward the phone in my front left pocket), and I reply, voice hard, "It's ten after."
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