It smells of wet dog, strong enough that I sleep by an open window with my tatty sleeping bag pulled up to my chin, feeling the patched up fibres against my cheek.

The taste of burned beans is still in my mouth; the can I’d swiped no longer making my bag clank.

The shack was once a home, with bedrooms now holding empty frames and shattered glass. For a moment I can hear the wind howl loudly as it comes through the window.

The smell of wet dog intensifies…