The boy sucked the last cold chip from the park bin and crept back to his bed under the bridge. The new month had orange eyes and brought with it a scent of winter. Crisp packets and empty cans slept in the crevices. A stray was sitting on his cardboard and hissed. He sighed and hoped when he turned 12 he’d get more respect. “That’s my bed, but mooj over a wee bit and I’ll share with you.” As he crouched to pet its head, the cat waddled off. He slumped and felt a lump. Dug a hand under. A finger. It was chewed around the edges but hadn’t been dead for long. Flakes of skyblue polish still on the nail. He sniffed. Warm perfume behind the knuckle. A smile surfaced – this was the luck he’d been waiting for. He hid it under his armpit and waited for the pink scratch of morning. After the street emptied of footsteps, he dug a hole between thorn bushes and weeds and planted the finger. Days… weeks… …