The toothless man and I play hide-and-seek while I pump the gas on number four. 

His cavernous mouth pulls back in a smile each time I pretend not to see him. 

I’m at the 76 on Howe and Fair Oaks, on the corner of how-the-hell-did-I-get-here and where-the-hell-will-I-go. 

February shows no promise of an upcoming spring. 

The rainstorm thrashes against me, nearly knocks the baseball hat off the man while he bobs through the bushes. No cars passing pay him any mind. 

I can see you, I say at last. 

I don’t care, he replies back.