"That piece of trash was asking for it," Regina muttered as she watched the drunkard stumble away into the night. "With moves like that, he's obviously been in more scraps than you can count."
The homeless man hadn't needed to step in this time; Regina had felt the heft of a brick in her hand, ready to hurl it at the back of the drunkard's head. But it was the homeless man who had acted first, landing a solid punch that sent the drunkard reeling.
When they had moved to a quieter spot, Regina finally broke the silence, "So you do speak. And here I thought you were gonna play the strong, silent type forever."
The man didn't respond to Regina's sarcasm. He just wrapped a tattered coat around his shoulders and settled himself on an old blanket.
"You haven't been through what I've been through," he finally said, his voice low and heavy with unspoken stories.
Regina caught his implication. Was he suggesting that if she had lived his life, she'd understand his choices? But what she couldn't wrap her head around was why, if these things had truly happened to him, he wouldn't go to the press with his story? It could offer him another avenue to fight his plight. What was the point of wandering around this desolate lot that was about to be developed?
She frowned, pressing him on why he wouldn't speak to reporters, only to be met with a glare that could freeze coffee.
"Are any of you reporters decent? A year ago, I might have just lost my house. But after talking to your kind, I lost my family too. Would you trust the press after that?"
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