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[George Williamson]

In the far south of the city lay a rows of houses leading onto the wide open farms of the countryside. Before the days of plastic and recyclemen rubbish the little rubbish that was not resumed in the household was piled up at the end of the garden. Goerge would have seen street urchins scavenging through these piles during the day if he was able.

It had been nearly half a year since George did see an urchin rummaging through these piles. She'd been like a scared animal looking for bones for dinner. In her absence he walked here alone, contemplating what he had done to save her. Or had he killed her? Hindsight was a harsh mistress. Always picking out the mistakes now the errors are seen. Always blind to how horribly wrong each other path would take.

So he wondered here, looking like a human needing to get out the house, on the border. He was still waiting for a reply from the hill and he wouldnt leave until he at least knew what was to happen. So he burned his time like he human did their candles, slowly and with little real purpose.