8/198
Adam Frante could have been warm.
Because it's so cold out here, on the streets, by yourself...
Warm and cozy in a fire of his own making, sitting hot as salamanders, watching the world stare as he shifted on the coals.
Fire came easily to him. It lit underneath his fingers, brightened his day. He gave it to others. He saved lives. He was a hero of the freezing.
He didn't like fall. He was never sure when it was cold enough to light a fire.
One fall day, it rained. Adam hid under an abandoned store's overhang, and waited for heat to fill his veins and spill out.
But there was nothing. He shivered, for the first time fearing the bite of frost.
Adam Frante hates winter. His fingers become immovable inside threadbare mittens, and sometimes he swears that his shivering here was causing earthquakes in China, or some other far-off land.
He doesn't think he'll make it to liking spring again. His legs went numb hours ago, and he suddenly isn't hungry, though he knows he hasn't eaten for days.
His eyes flutter shut, and he lets his head relax against the cold stone wall.
How about that, he thinks, for the last time. I'm warm...