The Greyhound wouldn’t leave for 12 hours. Sixteen hours since Dave ate the Mars bar. Thirty-two hours since the wreck on the Bay Bridge. His stomach was a snake hugging a stick. Bedroll in hand, he inched along Market street against busy people, scowling rocks rolling by in a flood. He caught a whiff of McDonald’s down the street. “Man, just some fries,” he thought. He could feel his hand turning palm up. Was he really going to do this? “You hungry, kid?” asked a guy with a briefcase.
Tags: begging, Greyhound, Market Street, McDonald's, panhandling