Knee High Ezekiel sits in the park. The first flurries of the winter snow are falling, white swarms flitting and flirting their way down. He flinches whenever a snowflake touches him, as if bitten, his legs flailing beneath the park bench, barely touching the ground. People are hurrying all around him, walking their dogs, dragging their children home from school, dreaming of warm homes and soup on the table, maybe an open fire. Ezekiel dreams too, sometimes, so many dreams he can never remember them all. Sometimes he worries about this.

"Hey 'Zeke!"

Ezekiel looks up from his huddle. A familiar face peers at him from with a dirty old parka, the mangy fur collar of the hood framing it like a badly trimmed beard.

"Hi Mo. Long time no see. What've you been up to?"

First Time Moses sits down on the bench next to his friend and takes a swig from a bottle in a brown paper bag, against the cold, of course. He hasn't shaven for a while, Ezekiel notices, and his greying whiskers are starting to merge with the fur on the hood. Pretty soon he won't ever been able to take his coat off.

First Time Moses sighs, "This and that. Traveling, seeing stuff. Y'know. You still living here in the park?"

"Yup, although I was thinking about going back to the hospital. It's warmer there, and they don't have as many bugs in Winter."

Moses looks at him, thinking of  warm beds, hot food. It'd almost be worth acting crazy, holing up there for the Winter, hitting the road again in Spring with a few extra pounds around his waist, but he knows he'll be sleeping under the bridge again tonight. He wouldn't be able to take the people, especially the crazy ones.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, watching the people hurry past, until finally Ezekiel has to say something to stop the words from frothing up in his head and filling his eyes.

"Y'know, when I was a kid I always wanted to be a Parfumier. I could tell all the flowers, even with my eyes shut. I'd've been damn good, too, except this one time I got a really bad cold, and I think something must've gone wrong, cos I haven't smelt a damn thing since."

Moses looks across at him.

"'Zeke, you're never going to be anything. It's not your nose. There's something broken in your head. Not that it makes a difference. I've travelled the length and breadth of this country, and there is no promised land. There's just people. Fuckers are everywhere. I'm going down to the bridge for the night. You can come along if you want, we can drink some whiskey, play some cards. I've got some cards somewhere..."

Ezekiel cuts him off.

"No thanks, man. I'm going back to the hospital. They always give me a bed for the winter, and they've got a TV room and stuff. I guess I'll see you around, huh?"

Moses gets up and walks off. Ezekiel looks after him, hoping for a goodbye wave, or a glance back or something, but all he gets is a noncommittal shrug that could just as easily be a shiver. He sits there, watching his friend walk off into the snow for a minute or maybe two, then he takes a deep breath and realises he's been crying, the tears turning frosty on his face.