An Uncounted Statistic

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He sits in the shop doorway trying to disappear into the background under the glare of the soft orange street light. His hands absent-mindedly wind the thin fabric of the dirty tattered blanket hed stumbled across yesterday around his long, chapped-from-cold fingers. A thin layer against the night was better than nothing, and hopefully hed still be able to feel his fingers by morning unlike the rest of the past week. Tucking the edges around himself under torn canvas trainers, around frayed...