Goddamn, it’s cold...
The lingering thought drifts through Matthew’s otherwise empty mind as he makes the trek from his only marginally warmer home into the depths of the thick woods behind Shady Glen Trailer Park--a shortcut that would get him to his destination in 15 minutes rather than 45.
He was going to the shop, hopefully to pick up his mom’s old truck that’d been out of commission for the better part of two months. He’d finally scraped together enough money to get it checked out last week and an additional 200 bucks would hopefully mean that whatever had been done was the big fix it needed.
Without that thing, a lot of his money-making ventures were on hold. He couldn’t cart junk or old furniture back and forth for neighbors. He couldn’t mow lawns any further than Shady Glen. He couldn’t do dope sales in the rich neighborhoods that were 20 minutes by car...not easily, anyway. And he definitely couldn’t drive folks 2 hours away to the nearest airport. That was his easiest, biggest money maker since he didn’t need to constantly look over his shoulder to play taxi driver for their tiny, taxiless town.
As he continued trudging over the cold-hardened ground, Mattie thought about how quickly the cold seemed to sweep in this year. Those politicians could definitely eat his ass because climate change was real as fuck.
Winter was surely coming to Mourning and that meant he’d have to drop by the thrift spot again, seeing as the coat he’d used for the past several years was now in tatters after getting caught on a low-sitting road sign during a sudden downpour a few weeks back. He’d ran to escape it and felt all of the money leave his proverbial pockets as the harsh riiiiiiip echoed in his ears. His shitty little coat was essentially useless.
In his heart, Mattie was still holding out for something good--one of those sick vintage coats that were made to last. He didn’t want yet another cheap, easy grab made by lazy fast-money factories for those who just had money to drop at the sight of every little hole or fray.
How nice that must be.
Shredded coat aside, he’d even been rocking the same pair of worn-out converse since sophomore year. They’d long since given up on him, but he’d simply patched them back up with a haphazard wrapping of duct tape and even that was currently in need of a refresh.
Using the toe of his dilapidated sneakers, he kicked a random pebble in his path and watched it skirt ahead before being caught in a pile of leaves and fallen twigs. Sighing, expelling a cloud of crystalline air, the 20-year-old picked up the pace so that 15 would hopefully turn into 10.
