It was mid-November in the High Desert. The temperature had plummeted forty degrees in three hours, turning the air into a razor. Artie was hunkered down in an empty grainer car, the kind with the "suicide" porch—a narrow metal ledge that offered no protection from the wind.
"The steel wants to eat you," Artie said, leaning back against the vibrating wall. "It’s a giant heat-sink. Never sit directly on the floor when it's sub-zero. Sit on your pack. Or sit on your pride, if it’s thick enough." hobo tough
Artie didn't argue. He just moved. He didn't have a heater or a thermal blanket. He had a stack of old Sunday Gazettes he’d scavenged in the last yard. It was mid-November in the High Desert
"You’re leaking heat, kid," Artie rasped. His voice sounded like gravel in a blender. "The steel wants to eat you," Artie said,