Hobo Tough Direct

"I'm... I'm fine," the kid gasped, his fingernails already turning a bruised purple.

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. hobo tough

"How do you do it?" the kid asked. "How do you stay out here?" "I'm... I'm fine