A boy danced by the bus stop, twisting in puddles. Becka stood and watched. Russell Watson on the MP3 player. The boy's grey bottoms were lagged from the rain. The bus came and went. Becka stood and watched the boy. There would be no bus for another hour. She decided to walk home. On a good day this was 45 minutes.
She hugged walls and inched towards trees, her head covered in a clear plastic hood. Her shoes glistened. A car pulled up to her pavement. Of course it was black. The windows were steamed up. You couldn't see who was inside. The horn beeped, Becka leant over and removed her headphones. She moved back to let the door open and sat in the car. It moved off slowly, headlights dipped low, in the direction of St June's Hill.

People walked dogs on St June’s Hill day and night, even in the rain. The trees provided shelter. There were two paths trod regularly. Off the tracks were dips and hiding places in which kids drank and smoked with phones. It was here that townsfolk grew up. Becka had shared a picnic there with George from BWS last summer. He came on too strong under a pussy willow.