South of Market, San Francisco, 9:12am

'Man, at least my underwear are new.

His underwear are secondhand. Even the shit stains are used.'

South of Market, San Francisco, 4:42pm

There is that smell again. On the balmy stoops still damp from junkies, the smell of spree's marches in circles like an angry wind sock. What is that goddamn smell?

Google search: the smell of crack cocaine.

"Caramel." "Sort of a mix of piss and sweet perfume smell." "Burnt plastic and a Bic pen with a touch of sweetness." "Crack smells like crack."

Bernal Heights, San Francisco, 8:22am

'Nope, no way, not even true.'

'It is true. I swear.'

'Spiderman is not real, Daniel.'

'He is too,' fingers tighten into the small husks of fists. Light-up shoes light up, though it is not yet 9am. 'Dad, tell her, tell her Spiderman is real.'

--

'Dad?'

--

'DAD??'

--

'See, even dad doesn't believe it. He isn't real and neither is that stupid Superman.'

'You haven't read the comics. You don't know...' the smallest voice, '...dad?'

They reach the crosswalk. The father's windbreaker is ineffectual, too small in the sleeves. His body, bent into the figure of fatherhood, reaches out for the gloved hand of an eight year old and a limp fist of five and one half years old. One shoulder stooped, the other unnaturally bony.

'Hold my hand, Daniel.'