I thought about calling this one “Chicken Karma” but decided against it. In my defense, it was three in the morning.
He used to sit in the cubby hole between the Greggs and the supermarket, sleeping bag pulled halfway up his chest against the chill, his frizzy red hair scraped into a ponytail. I brought him a hot chicken pasty from the Greggs every day until the day he disappeared.
I always assumed the worst.
The other week, though, I was back there; a red-haired man stopped me outside the supermarket, grinned, and handed me a chicken pasty. He turned on his heel without another word, and it was only then that I recognised him.
I noticed he’d kept the ponytail.
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