Chapter 18: The picker of lost things

 Augustine: Song weaver, self-proclaimed Life Skiller. Likes to jog in the mornings.

Ah, there is nothing like jogging on a Sunday. Everyone is asleep, the cars are still not on their mad dash to get from one place to another.

The road is mine, and mine alone.

I smile, but then I see something strange. There is a man, about my age, laying on a bench.

He'll catch a cold out here.

I stop jogging, so my running won't startle him. He appears asleep. I want to wake him up as gently as possible. I go to him, and gently touch his shoulder. His eyes snap open in an instant. He is blonde, although his hair is a dirty-blonde shade, and not like my nearly orange hue.

His eyes…

Like milk chocolate.

No one with eyes like this can say no to a hand offered in friendship!