Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. 

Hovering over the sink stood a young man, feeling like a stranger in his own skin.

He was an actor, typecast in a role he no longer was suited for, his audience couldn't get enough of his role as the ingenue, but he was sick of it. His fans insist that he replays the same motions over at nausea. Even though his face no longer fit the soft cherubic role, that was the only role offered to him. Act unassuming but not uneducated, playful but not flirty, kind but not too sweet, earnest but not blunt. It was a fine-lined wire role he crafted and ended up shoehorned in.

He was unable to show the complete evolution of his skills. If he kept the act, he would permanently stay still, like a collector's item encased in glass. With the dark folding around on the stage floor, he veered towards the warmth of the stage light. He forced his stiff neck to move. Instead of bright light, there was a skylight. His eyes watered at the sky's blue brilliance. A blur-like distorted lens effect hindered his vision. 

Tap, tap, tap.

     He jerked his head to the side. His neck creaked from the effort as he barely made out the shadow of his reflection on the glass.

On the other side of the wall, people were tapping at the glass, grinning and applauding; his audience. He no longer needed to act out his role in motion; he just had to stand and look the part. He was the mold in the wrong position, and there he remained until his limbs slowly stiffened and he froze.

There were children throwing popcorn at him, flashes of light from people taking pictures with their phones, and one fan, in particular, stood out amongst the crowd.

An older woman, her sharp black horns and scaly red skin shined like a polished crocodile boot.

She grinned at him as her shiny black eyes shifted to a vibrant yellow. She winked and spoke to him, her voice muffled by the wall between them, "what a pretty doll." 

Samson clamped down on the panicked scream ripping through his throat by slamming his head against the bottom of the wooden bench. After realizing he could move and was neither an actor nor a doll but living human flesh, he laid back down, and massaged his sore head. He cringed back from the sun peeking through the seat. Sam craned his neck and found himself buried amongst paper wrappers, soda cans, cardboard, and barefoot. Crawling out from under the wooden bench, he shoved cardboard and paper debris off him. His muscles ached from sleeping on a concrete floor. His knee bones cracked and popped as he stood up to search for his shoes. Taking a deep breath, already missing the intoxicating junk food even if it left him penniless. His aching stomach gurgled, regretting what may come in the future once he found a toilet. He rummaged through his sleeping bag and tried to recall where he had hidden his money. 

 After spending his money on snacks, he was left with a hundred forty-seven dollars with forty-five cents in change. Not enough for a night's sleep in a cheap motel room. 

 He swore he took three hundred dollars with him, but maybe he left some of that money behind in his bedroom. His stomach flipped at the possibility. He was in such a hurry to get out that he tried to take only crucial necessities, like ID and money, that he could carry. Anything else like clothes or sentimental objects would have weighed him down. If he had known the trash heap he would end up in, he would have made a plan. Instead of scrambling amongst the garbage like he was now. 

 He was sure he had left his shoes on last night. He brushed aside scraps of paper and tossed soda cans, but his sneakers were out of sight, and he must have been too tired to care about kicking them off. He rummaged through the rest of the garbage but had no luck finding his blue sneakers.  

All the while, he wondered if going back home would be a safe enough option. He should consider it a chance if he didn't find his shoes and had no money to buy new ones. 

The grazing of bullets punching through plaster and shattering glass raining down on his head was still fresh on his mind, so turning back was negative. 

"Hey!" someone shouted.

Samson jumped at the abrupt banging, followed by another shout behind him. He turned and exhaled. It was just a construction group taking down the rusty rides and tents; all of it was getting torn down. 

"Watch where you're pulling," a burly man shouted at another man wearing a matching yellow neon vest and denim. 

"Yeah, do that! No- No goddammit, are you blind!" A whining of metal cut through the shouting, followed by a booming crash that sent a cloud of dust blooming.

They continued shouting back and forth as Samson gathered his belongings and jogged barefoot towards the remaining tents. 

I could go back home and sneak back in for my stuff. 

 As he stumbled in a groggy haze, he weighed the ramifications of breaking & entering his own home. 

He settled on a bench behind a tent with broken bottles scattered about, used as targets for shooting. At which point his stomach churned. 

"Argh," he whined, clutching his underbelly. I should have ordered a salad, and I should have brought food of my own. 

 He suddenly hoped his things got thrown out on the curb or tossed in the garbage, and it would make it easier for him to fish them out of the garbage bin. He ran his hand through his greasy locks adding another task to his list of potential crimes. If he was going to break in, he might as well take a shower. He leaned back and rubbed his eyes, taking away the remainder of his sleep.

"Hey, would you mind if I look through there?" 

For the second time that morning, Samson flinched back in pure fright. He sat up in attention to the person standing only a foot away from him. 

It was an older man, maybe between his late twenties and early thirties with blonde matted stringy hair, wearing washout jeans with wide tears at the knees over red checkered pajama bottoms and mitch matching flip flops. 

"Uh," Samson eyed the drifter like a scared cat. 

The blond pointed to the left of Samson, making him turn to glance over at the overfilled garbage next to him. 

"Do you mind if I look through it?" he said.

"Uh, yeah, sure," Samson said. He grabbed his belongings and scooted to the edge of the bench. 

"Thanks," the scraggly man said, rummaging through the trash. 

As he did, Samson kept an eye on him. Half in part because he was still in shock at how he managed to avoid hearing the man's approach, the other half out of curiosity at what they would find, and another part of him was scared shitless that if he made a move to run it would somehow piss off the homeless guy.

Samson's curiosity beat out his fear as he remained seated, watching the blonde man pull out a bottle of water containing a wad of balled-up napkins and place them aside at his feet. He went on to pull out a stuffed toy bear drenched in sticky soda, which was not much of value, at least in Samson's eyes. He placed that to the side and plunged further; his body was half-submerged in filth. He resurfaced with a white leopard plushie caked in nacho cheese. He retrieved the water bottle drenching the leopard's head with it.

 Using the wads of wet napkins plopped out, he scraped the layer of cheese off, revealing the stuffed leopard's emerald green eyes. He marveled at his find and cleaning handiwork. 

"Look's good," Samson said.

"Thanks," he said with a toothy grin revealing mossy teeth.

He squeezed the excess moisture off the plush cat's head. As he did, he turned to say, "so, what are you doing here?"

Samson faked a cough, "uh- I just, you know, wanted to see the carnival and hang." Clearing his throat, he tried again, "I'm getting over a hangover," he grumbled. 

Scratching his chin, the homeless man said, "Yeah, same here. So are you going to stay for long?"

"Uh, no, I'm just passing through," Samson said. 

He nodded, examining the plushy he said, "cuz we noticed you last night." He motioned towards the directions of some tents where a few people were walking out, lugging out tent parts. From a distance, a group of disheveled construction workers was dismantling a tent.

"Me and my friends, we saw you crawl under that bench, and it's none of my business, but you gotta be careful about where you sleep around here." 

"You were watching me sleep?" Samson said, injecting a bit of heat into his voice, that he hoped it was intimidating rather than scared. 

He flinched at Samson's accusation. "Ugh, No. I mean, it wasn't me, and don't make it sound weird." He shrugged off Samson's concern, "besides, you should thank them-"

"For watching me sleep?" he snipped. He scooted further away, his butt barely hanging off by half. If he wasn't so sore from sleeping on the ground, he'd have run already. Samson's skin crawled at the image, "Yeah, no thanks."

 "I mean, if it makes you feel better, it was a girl who watched over you. She kept you safe and your stuff hidden. I mean, your stuff could've been stolen otherwise." 

Samson glared at him in a sweaty panic. What the hell am I supposed to say to that? And who is this guy talking about?

"By the way, my name's Blake," He held out his hand, but Samson cringed away from his touch. 

Blake dropped his hand and slumped forward, cradling the plushy by its head to pick at the remainder of the caked cheese. "I live around the area with a few other kids, my roommates." 

He shrugged and said, "I mean, I don't care, but you gotta stay warm at night. Wrap yourself up underneath stuff, Ya' know?" Wagging his sticky finger, flicking off a chunk of cheese. "Otherwise, you'll freeze to death, and you know you'll get caught by cops, so yeah." He clicked his tongue and said, "do you have a place to sleep?" 

 Samson stared at his feet. His mouth was a thin line of contempt. Whether it was towards Blake or himself remained to be seen. Several seconds passed by before either of them spoke or moved.

 Blake scratched his neck and sighed, saying, "whatever, man." He gathered his finds and got up to leave, "I didn't want to talk to you anyways." 

He gave Blake a sideways glance. "Then why did you?"

"Lu- one of my friends told me to," he huffed. "I did it as a favor for her, not you, and since I already did my good deed for the day later," he gave Samson a salute farewell and walked away. 

As Blake marched away, Samson looked down at his bare feet. 

He's right. He hadn't thought twice about where to sleep or how to hide properly. For all Samson knew, he was facing another night under a bench if he didn't find some sort of shelter or help. Maybe Blake or his friends would know at least, "Hey, wait." Samson stood to call out.

 Blake was already putting distance between them and quickened his pace as Samson called out his name. 

"Hey, wait," Samson called out, and he hustled over right as Blake slammed into a construction worker. 

"Oomph," grunted Blake. 

"Hey, hey! Watch where you're going. Ah! Get off! You smell like shit," The construction worker hollered, shoving at Blake hard enough to make him drop his bag and fall flat on his back in a puddle of muddy concrete water. The burly construction worker lumbered past Blake and spat on the ground next to him for good measure.

Blake scrambled to gather the fallen plushies back in the now-torn plastic bag. Fishing a single soggy shoe out of the puddle and saving the rest of his finds.

Before Samson could catch up, Blake got up and jogged away. 

"Hey, wait." 

Blake kept moving, leaving behind a few things in the muddy water. Samson kneeled to pick up Blake's abandoned items. "Hey, you forgot your-my shoe!" Samson held up his dirty, worn blue sneaker with the missing shoelaces.

"Hey!" Sam turned to the fleeing thief.

"You stole from me!" 

"C-can't hear you," Blake called back in between pants as he dashed away.

"Yes, you can!" Samson hollered after him.