AMALIA
you're staring at the sky
watching stars collide
"Adam?"watching stars collide
Her voice floats in on a bed of concern, searching for some semblance of coherence behind the glassy eyes. It is not entirely uncommon to see drunkards passed out here, though usually the hour that they appear is rather later in the night. Sometimes Amalia recognizes them; usually she does not. Her grandmother used to give them food, saying it was not their fault they had nothing in a place that gave so little to its people, that Mort would want them to be kind. Her mother tended their tremors and wounds, but only because she must.
For her part, Amalia avoided them all, too anxious and awkward to intervene.
But this time it is different. She knows the figure on the bench, his brittle bones and darkened skin familiar to the girl. The sight of Adam's exposed hips does nothing for Amalia: she is far more concerned with his breathing, the smell of alcohol which leaves him in waves. "Why are you sleeping here?" she murmurs, not really anticipating any reply from the apparently unconscious man.
Kneeling down on the ground beside him, Amalia reaches out to nudge at Adam's shoulder. "Adam? You okay?"
