Alley Oops (and Alley Vomits), a Mage-nificent Mess, and Melinda's Masterclass in Supernatural Shady Motel Acquisition.
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Author Note: Melinda's having a really bad day, and "under the weather" is a colossal understatement. Witness her descent into the glamorous world of back-alley brooding and the subtle art of magically-adjacent motel check-in. Spoiler: candy wrappers might be involved.
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Melinda dragged her feet along the narrow alleyway, the motion slow and labored, each step heavier than the last. Her legs trembled beneath her, muscles aching with a hollow fatigue that went beyond mere exhaustion—it was bone-deep, soul-deep. The alley was damp and suffocating, the air thick with the sour stench of rot, urine, and old smoke. It clung to her skin like guilt.
She leaned heavily against the rough brick wall, the uneven surface scraping against her arm. Or rather, what remained of it. The raw edge of her stump, hastily bandaged in a strip of now-filthy cloth, brushed against the jagged brick, sending a fresh jolt of pain through her side. She winced but didn't stop. She couldn't afford to.
The lack of magic was like an invisible parasite eating her from the inside out. The core of her being—the source of her power, her balance, her identity—was crumbling. Where once there had been fire, certainty, and strength, now there was only a dull, dragging emptiness. Every cell in her body screamed for magic, for connection, for something. Her breath came in shallow gasps, and her hands—what was left of them—shook violently with every step.
She stumbled as her knees buckled, lurching forward just in time to reach the alley's corner. Her stomach clenched, twisted into knots, and then lurched. Without warning, she doubled over, gagging as bile rose up her throat.
The sour vomit splattered onto the alley floor, bright against the dark grime. It burned as it passed, leaving a raw, acidic sting at the back of her throat. She stayed hunched over for a moment, her hair falling around her face in thick, greasy clumps. Her body trembled like a leaf barely clinging to its branch in a winter storm.
Footsteps echoed from the street behind her. She didn't look up, but she felt the weight of eyes on her—passing glances from the so-called normals. They didn't stop. They never did.
A young couple slowed just long enough to glance in her direction. Their eyes flinched away quickly, filled with thinly veiled revulsion and pity masquerading as indifference.
What do they see when they look at me now? she wondered bitterly, her lips curling into a humorless smile.
To them, she was probably just another lost soul in the city's underbelly. A junkie. A drunk. A madwoman. No one worth helping. No one worth noticing.
Her once-elegant robes—stitched with gold thread and embroidered with sigils of protection—were now nothing more than tattered scraps. The fabric hung off her like dead skin, stained with blood, dirt, and the remnants of magic battles long lost.
Her red hair, once braided with precision and pride, had become a tangled nest, slicked with sweat and city grime. The power, the elegance, the fear she once inspired—they were all gone.
Now, all that remained was a broken shadow of a woman. A mage without magic. A weapon stripped of purpose.
A wave of visceral hatred surged through her, sharp and burning, as her eyes followed the carefree movements of the normals strolling past the alley. They didn't notice her—of course they didn't. Wrapped in their mundane little worlds of routines and petty concerns, their faces were lit with easy smiles, their conversations laced with meaningless chatter.
To them, the world was simple, linear, safe.
Melinda's lips curled into a silent snarl. She could feel the heat rising in her chest, a feral, animalistic urge clawing its way to the surface. Every fiber of her being screamed to lash out—to rip through the illusion they lived in, to make them see.
See the truth.
See the monsters that lurked beneath their feet.
See her.
They didn't deserve the peace they enjoyed, the peace bought with blood, sacrifice, and secrets buried so deep even they couldn't comprehend the cost. Her stomach churned with contempt. They had no idea how thin the veil was, how easily the balance could tip. They lived on the edge of a knife, and they didn't even know it.
Her fingers, or the ones that remained, twitched with impotent rage.
Once, just a flick of her hand could've turned stone into ash, could've silenced a dozen hearts before they had the chance to scream. Once, her name had been spoken with a mixture of fear and reverence.
Now? Now she was reduced to this: a broken woman in a piss-stained alley, barely able to stand.
The thought of killing one of them—a single, arrogant soul walking past—flashed through her mind like lightning. Just one. Just to make a point.
But reason held her back, bitter and cold.
It would be suicide.
Even with her power nearly depleted, she could still take down a normal. That wasn't the issue. But doing so would send up a flare the SCM couldn't ignore. The Supernatural Crimes and Management Division would descend on her within minutes, like wolves scenting blood in the snow.
They weren't like the old days—where a powerful enough mage could slip through cracks, vanish into realms unseen. The SCM had adapted. They'd grown smarter, more ruthless. With the Enforcer gone, their grip on the supernatural world had tightened, becoming something close to tyranny disguised as order.
After the last Enforcer's death—a mystery still whispered about in backroom circles and magical safehouses—the SCM had scrambled to maintain control. No one had stepped forward to replace the void.
Because no one could.
Enforcers weren't made; they were born—and the last one had died screaming.
Now, the SCM played a dangerous game of containment. They tried to manage the chaos, to keep the lid on a boiling cauldron. And so far, just barely, they were succeeding.
But for how much longer?
That question haunted her, gnawed at her in quiet moments when pain didn't swallow everything else. The balance couldn't hold forever. The world was shifting again. She could feel it—in the wind, in the stars, in the magic that trembled at the edges of existence.
And when it did tip… would there be anything left to save?
⁕
A chilling thought crept through her fogged mind, curling around her spine like icy fingers, sending a tremor through her weakened body. Despite the feverish heat radiating from her skin—the dull, sickly warmth of magic depletion—she shivered. Not from the rain. Not from pain. But from fear.
Somewhere out there, someone was deliberately, methodically, moving through time—murdering Enforcers before they could ever rise. Future protectors, guardians of the supernatural balance, were being plucked out of existence before they even understood what they were meant to become. It wasn't just cruel. It was strategic. Precise. Cold-blooded annihilation.
And no one had been able to stop it.
Not even the SCM.
Not with their vast networks, not with their libraries of forbidden knowledge or the ancient devices powered by arcane energy. They were failing. Helpless. Like dogs chasing the wind. This predator—this force that hunted across timelines—was far beyond anything the SCM had prepared for.
Without Enforcers, the system was nothing but scaffolding over a crumbling ruin. There was no longer a true balance—only the illusion of it. No real law. No real deterrent. Just bureaucracy propped up by fear and temporary measures. It was like watching a star collapse in on itself. A slow, unstoppable march toward cosmic ruin.
And she was caught in the middle of it. Broken. Bleeding. Forgotten.
Her eyes drifted down to the raw, open wound where her left hand had once been. The skin around the stump was blistered and torn, the blood still dark and tacky. The severed end throbbed in sync with her heartbeat—a constant, pulsing reminder of her vulnerability.
It had been cut cleanly. Too cleanly.
A witch blade. It had to be. No other weapon could've bypassed her defensive wards or halted her body's natural magic from attempting to heal the injury. Witch blades weren't just made to wound. They were forged for cruelty. Designed to inflict lasting damage—to ensure recovery was slow, painful, and incomplete.
Her lips moved without sound, shaping a vicious curse that never left her throat. Even the words felt too sacred to waste on the open air. She bit down on the pain, straightened slowly, her body trembling with effort. Every motion sent new waves of agony up her arm and into her shoulder, but she forced herself to move.
Because standing still meant dying.
The first drop of rain kissed her cheek like a warning. Then another. And another. Until the sky opened fully, unleashing a steady, frigid drizzle that quickly soaked her through. Her matted hair clung to her face like wet vines, and her clothes—already torn and stained—began to stick to her skin like a second, suffocating layer.
The cold was absolute. Not just in the air, but in her bones.
She needed shelter. Not just from the rain, but from the world.
She needed silence, darkness, solitude—just enough of it to close her eyes without fear of being found, to allow her shattered magic to stir, to mend, however slowly it could. The process would be long and agonizing, like stitching together silk with barbed wire.
But she would survive.
She had to survive.
And when she did… she would find them.
That boy with too much luck and not nearly enough fear. That hunter with the dead eyes and the steady hand. They had done this to her.
They had made her bleed.
A fire began to kindle beneath her ribs—not magical, not even physical, but something older. Deeper. A raw, relentless fury that no wound could extinguish.
They were going to pay for what they had done to her.
Even if it took everything she had left.
Even if it was the last act she ever performed.
The thought gave her more strength than warmth ever could.
Vengeance was the only thing that burned in this endless cold.
Securing a place to rest for the night—somewhere with a door that locked, walls that could hold back the wind, and a roof that didn't leak—turned out to be easier than expected, even in her fragile condition.
She didn't need to conjure fire or summon storms. Not now. Not for something as simple as this. There were spells woven so deeply into her muscle memory that they barely brushed against her dwindling magical reserves. Tiny enchantments, low-level persuasion charms—just enough to nudge a human mind in the direction she needed.
These were the tricks she had relied on for years in subtle dealings. Little things that slipped beneath the radar of the SCM's surveillance and never triggered the wards of even the most vigilant witch hunter. They were soft. Familiar. The magical equivalent of muscle twitches. And now, in this moment of dire need, they were all she had left.
She reached into that worn bag of tricks, fingers trembling from cold and fatigue, and pulled out the gentlest of compulsions like a coin from an old purse.
The rain had turned from a soft drizzle into a relentless downpour by the time she found shelter. The kind of rain that soaked through fabric and skin, that carried a chill down to the marrow.
The building ahead looked like it had been forgotten by time—or at least by maintenance crews. A dimly lit motel crouched at the edge of the city's less-traveled roadways, its faded neon sign struggling to stay alive. Each flicker of light cast a pale, sickly glow over the slick parking lot, turning the puddles into warped mirrors.
The lobby door groaned open on its hinges as she stepped inside, trailing the scent of rain and blood behind her.
Inside, the air was stale, thick with the scent of old coffee and disinfectant. A small electric heater buzzed faintly in the corner, barely warming the space.
Behind the counter sat a young man, slouched in his chair with a posture that screamed disinterest. He couldn't have been older than twenty-two, with short-cropped hair and headphones jammed into his ears. His gaze remained fixed on the glowing screen of his smartphone, the high-pitched melody of a soap opera theme song leaking out into the room like an unwelcome guest.
He didn't acknowledge her with words.
Just a lazy hand gesture, flicked in her direction as though brushing off a fly. "No rooms," he muttered, voice dull and mechanical, eyes never leaving the screen.
Melinda's eyes, bloodshot and shadowed with exhaustion, drifted to the wall behind him.
A rack of keys hung there—neat, orderly. She counted seven empty hooks. Seven rooms that weren't currently rented. The lie was so obvious it made her stomach twist, though whether from the dishonesty or her own fraying nerves, she wasn't sure.
"I have money," she said, quietly but firmly. Her voice carried no warmth, no trace of pleading or urgency—just a flat, emotionless statement that cut through the tinny noise of the soap opera playing from the boy's phone.
It was the kind of tone that suggested she had nothing left to bargain with but still refused to beg. A tone that dared the world to say no, knowing full well it probably would.
The young man barely glanced up. His thumb continued to scroll across the screen. Whatever drama was unfolding in that fictional world held more value to him than the soaking-wet, visibly injured woman standing in front of him.
"Look, miss," he sighed, lifting his gaze just enough to lock eyes with her. His expression was weary, irritated, as though this brief moment of attention was costing him more than she was worth. "I already told you—no rooms. Either leave calmly, or I'm calling the police."
His eyes roamed over her—lingering too long on the tattered clothes clinging to her damp frame, the matted hair stuck to her forehead, the pale, drawn face that betrayed a cocktail of exhaustion, pain, and barely-contained fury.
The judgment settled in his expression like a final nail in a coffin. He didn't see a paying guest. He saw trouble.
Melinda exhaled slowly, a motion more of control than weariness. Every movement hurt—her joints stiff, her nerves frayed, the bleeding stump of her arm throbbing with dull, persistent agony beneath her cloak.
But she moved anyway.
She stepped forward—slowly, deliberately, not threatening, but not submissive either. Her boots squeaked softly against the vinyl flooring, wet from the rain.
The boy's brows twitched. His posture changed.
Gone was the lazy, half-asleep slouch. In its place, something coiled and uncertain. He stood up abruptly, his free hand dropping beneath the counter in a swift motion.
Melinda didn't need to see it to know. A small weapon. A taser. Maybe pepper spray. Something to force her back into the street where she "belonged."
Before he could say another word, she raised her remaining hand and reached across the counter.
Her fingers brushed his wrist—lightly. No threat. No sudden force. Just contact.
The skin-on-skin touch was cold, delicate. But it carried weight. Presence.
He froze.
Her hand remained there, steady, her palm pressing just enough to keep him still without alarm.
And then she smiled.
It was a gentle curve of her lips, the kind of smile that looked soft and innocent from a distance but didn't reach her eyes.
Her eyes, bloodshot and ringed with exhaustion, burned with something deeper—like coals under snow.
"I said," she murmured again, barely above a whisper, "I have money."
He swallowed. The bravado that had briefly flared in him withered as her presence pushed into the space between them like fog.
She didn't use magic. Not overtly. This was all her—raw, fraying, and on the edge of something worse. And yet still in control.
She had done this before. Hundreds of times.
The smile was real enough to disarm, fake enough to manipulate, and old enough to hurt.
The boy's fingers twitched under hers, then relaxed.
"Sir," she said softly, her voice slipping between the notes of the soap opera music like a shadow between cracks in stone. It wasn't loud, but it was intentional—measured, persuasive, and laced with the faintest trace of something more. A whisper of magic threaded through her words, subtle as a breeze beneath a closed door. It wasn't enough to control, only to suggest. A nudge toward kindness.
"It's raining quite heavily outside," she continued, her tone calm and respectful. "Could I please, just for tonight… get a room?"
The words hung in the air like a scent—sweet, strange, and impossible to ignore.
For a moment, the cashier blinked slowly, the artificial light catching the oily sheen on his forehead. The blankness in his eyes wavered as the enchantment slid into place, touching something soft in the corner of his weary mind.
"Yes, a room!" he suddenly declared, almost too loudly, as if waking from a dream with a start. "Of course, madam! I'm coming right away!"
His entire demeanor shifted in an instant. The lethargy that had wrapped around him like a blanket fell away, replaced by the awkward eagerness of someone trying to correct a mistake he hadn't known he made.
He turned to the wall of brass keys, each dangling from a crooked hook, the metal catching flickers of the neon motel sign outside. His hand extended toward a key labeled 12, but then… paused.
The change in his expression was small, but not missed. His brow furrowed slightly, lips twitching with calculation. A flicker of something transactional replaced the momentary warmth. He rubbed the back of his neck, then turned halfway back toward her.
"Yes… a room," he repeated, this time more slowly. "For the night… that'll be five bucks."
Melinda's eyes didn't betray a flicker of emotion. Inside, her body throbbed with exhaustion and cold. Her magic pulsed weakly beneath her skin, a dwindling candle fighting the wind.
But her face remained still—calm, unreadable, practiced.
"Okay, sir," she said gently.
Her hand dipped into the deep inner pocket of her worn-out coat, fingers brushing past soaked fabric, a splinter of broken bone near her elbow, and finally wrapping around the small object she'd tucked away earlier.
She drew it out slowly—a crumpled candy bar wrapper, bright with metallic reds and blues. It looked childish in her pale, mud-smeared hand, like a leftover fragment from a world she no longer belonged to.
Without hesitation, she extended it toward him, as though it were money. As though she genuinely believed it held value.
The man reached for it instinctively, caught in the momentum of the moment. His fingers closed around the foil.
He squinted at it, lifting it toward the flickering ceiling light. The shiny surface crackled as he straightened it out, turning it one way, then the other.
His brows pinched together.
It wasn't real currency. Not even close. But something about the way she offered it—the confidence, the illusion of sincerity—made him hesitate.
For that small instant, it felt like something valuable.
And that was the art.
She watched him closely, her eyes never leaving his face, waiting to see whether the magic would hold… or break.
"Yes… good money," the boy declared, nodding to himself with a strange sense of certainty, as though convincing his own senses rather than hers. His eyes gleamed with something uncomfortably close to reverence, a glint of greed dancing behind them that bordered on the absurd.
He reached for the motel's ancient cash register—a clunky, metal box that wheezed and groaned as he tapped on its keys. Each button press sounded like a hammer strike, loud and heavy in the quiet lobby. The drawer sprang open with a reluctant clang, revealing a mess of crumpled bills, loose coins, and faded receipts.
With something resembling reverence, he placed the candy wrapper atop the heap, as if it were an offering rather than trash. He paused for a moment, tilting his head to admire it under the dim yellow light before letting out a satisfied grunt.
The drawer remained open as he turned his back, reaching for the key board behind him with both hands, his fingers fumbling over the worn plastic tags as if he were selecting a rare gem.
Melinda's expression didn't change, but her breath slowed.
The opportunity hung in the air like ripe fruit.
She moved with quiet precision, her hand slipping into the open cash drawer as naturally as a falling leaf. Despite the pain radiating from her missing arm and the throb of her depleted magic, her fingers remained steady—delicate, quick, and sure.
A lifetime of practiced survival had made theft a second language. Her eyes stayed locked on his back as she brushed her fingers against the edges of several bills, selecting only the crispest notes by texture alone. A few hundred dollars vanished into the inner folds of her damp, tattered skirt.
By the time he turned back around, triumphantly holding up a tarnished brass key attached to a cloudy plastic tag, her hand was empty, resting casually at her side.
He didn't notice.
She offered him a smile—light, disarming, the kind of smile that didn't quite reach her eyes but still managed to soften the air between them. It was the kind of smile that made men lower their guard, made them think they'd made the right decision.
The money was secure, and she was one key closer to rest.
She turned to leave, her shoulders still heavy with exhaustion but her steps feeling just a little lighter. For a brief second, the rain outside didn't seem quite as cold.
"Wait!"
The word cut through the moment like a blade.
His voice was different now—not quite angry, but hesitant. Almost uncertain.
Melinda stopped in her tracks.
She turned slowly, her body tense beneath the surface. Her face, however, was a careful mask—blank, unreadable, her eyes shadowed beneath the flickering light.
A single word from him could unravel everything.
"We have a soda and water vending machine in the common area down the hall," the man offered, his voice a half-hearted attempt at hospitality, though it lacked any real warmth. His eyes lingered on her for just a beat longer than necessary, something unreadable flitting across his expression—a flicker of curiosity, maybe guilt, or even caution, quickly buried beneath the dull glaze of indifference.
He scratched the back of his neck and gestured vaguely. "And the… uh… the kitchen is technically open until midnight."
His eyes dropped to the scratched digital watch on his wrist, its tiny screen glowing faintly in the dim lobby light. He frowned. "Oh. Well… it's already a minute past midnight, so… no kitchen, I guess." His words stumbled out, uncertain and awkward, like he was grasping for some semblance of politeness but no longer knew how to hold onto it.
"Okay, thank you," Melinda murmured, her voice soft, nearly swallowed by the hum of the lobby lights. She gave a slight nod—almost a bow of acknowledgment—more habit than courtesy, a gesture that spoke of tired civility and old manners she hadn't yet lost, even now.
"Goodnight, then," he mumbled, already half-gone from the conversation. He dropped back into his sunken chair with a creak, the worn fabric sagging beneath him like it carried the weight of a thousand identical nights.
His eyes were instantly drawn back to the glowing screen of his phone, the sharp tones of his soap opera resuming their hold on his attention. Melinda turned away, her figure swallowed by the dim hallway, and continued on without a word. The crumpled bills hidden in her skirt pressed lightly against her hip, offering a fragile sense of comfort.
But the ache inside her chest—an emptiness that no stolen money could soothe—remained untouched.
A long, weary sigh escaped Melinda's lips as she pushed through the last vestiges of interaction. The moment she stepped out of the lobby, the air changed. It felt heavier somehow, denser with silence and stale with the faint scent of mildew.
The cold linoleum floor beneath her feet shocked her senses, seeping through her thin stockings like ice. She walked slowly, each footstep soft but deliberate, as if afraid the hallway might crack beneath her.
The stairs creaked loudly as she ascended, their old wooden bones protesting every shift of her weight. Each groan echoed down the hall behind her, a lonely soundtrack to her climb.
By the time she reached the upper floor, her limbs felt heavier. The flickering fluorescent bulbs buzzed overhead, casting trembling light across the narrow corridor. Peeling wallpaper curled at the edges like brittle leaves, and the air grew thick, laced with age and neglect.
She passed closed doors that bore no sound, no signs of life. Only silence, and the occasional distant thud from the rain outside.
Finally, she reached the last room at the far end of the hallway. The brass numbers on the door were dulled and crooked, barely visible in the gloom.
She stood there for a moment, letting her weight shift from one foot to the other, her breath catching up with her body.
With mechanical slowness, she bent down and slipped off her boots. They were soaked through and heavy with mud, leaving a dark, wet mark on the faded carpet. Her stockinged toes curled instinctively against the cold.
She reached into her pocket, pulling out the tarnished brass key, and slid it into the lock. The tumblers clicked with a sharp snick, loud in the silence, like the final note of a song.
She pushed the door open with a soft grunt.
The room was small—barely wide enough to hold a bed, a nightstand, and a tiny dresser—but at that moment, it was a palace compared to the storm outside.
She stepped inside, dragging her damp feet across the threadbare carpet, and turned to lock the door behind her.
The bolt slid into place with a satisfying finality.
For the first time that night, she let herself exhale fully. The deep, hollow breath was more than exhaustion—it was the sound of surviving one more night.
⁕
The room was shrouded in a deep, unsettling darkness, the kind that felt too complete—too intentional. The air inside held a damp, stale quality, as though the space hadn't been aired out in weeks. The heavy curtains were drawn tightly across the single, narrow window, successfully blocking out not only the last streaks of daylight but also any hint of outside life.
Melinda stepped in cautiously, her wet socks squelching softly against the matted carpet. She reached for the wall beside the door, her fingertips brushing over peeling wallpaper and dust-laden plaster until they landed on the cool, flat surface of a light switch.
She flicked it.
A single, naked bulb dangling from the cracked ceiling jolted to life with a weak sputter. Its harsh, yellow glare poured over the small room, casting long shadows and making everything look colder, sadder. The paint was chipped. The wallpaper curled. The only furniture—a sagging brown sofa, a small dresser with a missing handle, and a crooked mirror—looked like they had weathered a decade of indifference.
And there, sprawled out with her legs casually crossed, one arm flung lazily over the back of the sofa as though it belonged to her, was Maggie.
"Hey there, Melinda," she said, grinning wide. Her eyes gleamed with mischief, like a cat who had already knocked over the vase. "Nice show you put on for the motel clerk. You've still got it."
Melinda's heart practically launched itself into her throat. She let out a gasp, hand flying to her chest.
"Maggie! You scared the absolute hell out of me!" she snapped, her voice breathless. The pulse in her neck throbbed beneath her skin, and for a moment, it felt like her heart might never slow down. Relief followed closely behind the fright—warm, heavy, and grounding. But it was quickly replaced with irritation, and she gave Maggie a pointed glare.
"Oh, geez, Mel, I'm really sorry," Maggie said, her grin fading into a sheepish smile. "I didn't mean to freak you out." She sat up from the sofa with a graceful shift, her movements effortlessly smooth, like she belonged in every space she stepped into—even this one.
Melinda shook her head, letting out a long breath as she leaned her weight against the door. "It's… it's fine," she muttered, brushing damp curls away from her face. Her bones ached. Her jacket clung to her skin with a damp chill. "But seriously, how did you even know where I was? I didn't tell—"
Her question was cut short by a sudden gasp from Maggie.
"Oh my gosh, Melinda! What in the world happened to your arm?"
Maggie was already moving across the room, her eyes wide, voice high-pitched with alarm. All traces of teasing were gone, replaced by pure concern that struck deep.
Before Melinda could even think to protest, Maggie was gently rolling back the sleeve of her worn jacket. The fabric was torn, crusted with blood, and beneath it, the makeshift bandage Melinda had tied in haste earlier looked pitiful under the fluorescent light.
Maggie's face twisted with worry. "This looks bad. Really bad. You need to get it checked, Mel. Properly. This could get infected."
"I'll be fine," Melinda muttered, though even she didn't believe it.
"No," Maggie said firmly. "We'll clean it up first. I'll find something in the bathroom." Her voice had taken on a quiet authority, not pushy, but unshakable.
Then, softer, she added, "You're safe now, okay?"
With that, she slipped an arm around Melinda's shoulders—not in a way that asked permission, but in a way that simply was—and began guiding her gently toward the small bathroom in the corner of the room.
"Oh," she said, almost as an afterthought, "I'll make us something to eat after. You look like you haven't had a hot meal in days."
Melinda didn't argue. The warmth of Maggie's presence was doing more for her than she could put into words, and the idea of a real meal—something hot, something that wasn't stolen—felt like an impossible luxury.
******
Notes: The Riverdale Sanitation Department would like to remind all citizens that alleyways are not designated waste disposal areas. Additionally, the Riverdale Chamber of Commerce wishes to assure potential visitors that most local lodgings accept actual currency, not discarded confectionery packaging. Please plan your stay accordingly, and maybe avoid the south side of town for a bit.