Change
"Spare change for a cuppa?" the homeless man outside Mycroft's club rasped, holding out a plastic cup with thin hands shaking and blue in the cold. He was hunched into an old Army coat, Vietnam era, the thick, cracked lenses of his spectacles fogging with every rattling breath. Bronchitis. Ought to go to a doctor.
"No," Mycroft said and went quickly through the front gates. Only at the top step did he suddenly whirl around and stare wildly into the street. That huddle, the bony shoulders under thick cloth, had been only too familiar. But the homeless man was gone.
