[ The snowball bursts against cobblestone, scattering snow over Don's boots. He stops; turns. Unmoving for the moment but preoccupied, some purpose dragging at him.
His eyes slip over the boy. Beneath his battered coat his shoulders give. He looks suddenly tired, his face drawn. As if to erase the sight he swipes his gaze from the kid. Stands just like that, seconds coming down like snow.
Walking slowly he crosses the street. One hand grips a flutter of papers attached to a clipboard. On his head a hat, snow dusted around the brim. ] You're supposed to run after you do that. [ And laugh. He'd meant it as a mild reproach but a questioning note's entered his voice: something's off, the boy as disquieting as the snowfall. ]
no subject
His eyes slip over the boy. Beneath his battered coat his shoulders give. He looks suddenly tired, his face drawn. As if to erase the sight he swipes his gaze from the kid. Stands just like that, seconds coming down like snow.
Walking slowly he crosses the street. One hand grips a flutter of papers attached to a clipboard. On his head a hat, snow dusted around the brim. ] You're supposed to run after you do that. [ And laugh. He'd meant it as a mild reproach but a questioning note's entered his voice: something's off, the boy as disquieting as the snowfall. ]