It's cold walking home. No faces at the windows, no sound of people, just cats clattering fences and distant streaming impersonal cars. It's late and the first hints of frost are growing across the pavement, little crystal cracks stretching like mold across the tarmac.

A cry breaks him from his reverie. Something soft under his left foot. He lifts his foot up quickly and bends down to look. A bird, lying by the side of the road, black feathers matted with blood. A broken wing lies awkwardly, draped like bed-sheets.  Must have been hit by a car. Lucky to have lasted this long, foxes and cats and the like.

He reaches out to lift the wing. The bird pecks at his hand, croaked feebly. Christ, what a mess. Leg mashed flat, rib-cage caved in like a dented door. Crouch there, looking at the bird. Bird looks back, eyes mirky from pain and fear. Too weak to defend itself. Too weak and hurt even to pull itself to safety under a nearby bush. Feel like crying, must be drunk, it's only a bird for God's sake.

The sound of footsteps. Look up to see someone approaching, long winter coat, breath smoking in the winter air, arms huddled close. And it is cold, time to be at home in the warm. Bird sobs quietly to itself.

He stands up, thrusts his hands back into his pockets, and sets off for home.