He was hungry, sore, tired and fuck all if he was actually getting any sleep that night. Hell, even the alley cats were probably dead to the world by that point. But he needed to get out of there and far away 'cause shit would go down if anyone saw him. Then he tripped and dammit, he knew he should've moved that when he first went by!
The support behind the bucket clattered to the floor, bringing down items he didn't even want to contemplate, let alone see. He cursed his luck as he picked himself up, making a break for the hole that he knew would potentially give him safety if someone else hadn't already found it. But they had and his hope died as quickly as it had come. So he kept running. The sores on his feet had re-opened and he was painfully reminded with every jarring step, leap and stumble he made. His lungs burned and he knew that cold he had the week before was going to rear it ugly head in the morning.
Then there was pain and he was sent rolling. Fuck it to hell.