Boaz staggered out of the Inn with lips drenched in beer. His breath also smelt like it. That he walked this way proved that he was drunk. He walked with confused legs, yelled curses directed at no one at all, curses you wouldn’t know fell heard or not in the night. 

It would appear Boaz will fall on his face but he never did; this wasn’t his first time walking under the influence. Too many times in this instance he’d be robbed by teens who sought advantage at his state. Too many times he’d vow never to walk in the night drunk, but too many times he’d find himself back in the Inn at night where one glass or bottle of beer never fulfilled the thirst. 

Perhaps the curses he lashed out now were a subconscious mechanism to scare away the damn teens if ever they lurked nearby in the dark; waiting for him so they could start pounding. But Boaz had a surprise trick up his sleeve. Since the last robbery, for every visit to the Inn he’d pack the right money that’ll buy him the appropriate dose of satisfactory alcohol since he accepted his inability to keep his drinking limits to one or two bottles. No man plans get drunk whenever they drink but…

He only carried that money; the watch, phone (a new one because the last was taken by the damn teens), keys were all left at home. 

So, if the damn teens take their chance at him again tonight, they’d only get away with a few coins of change. Boaz began to laugh, from shouting curses a second before. 

The street he staggered on was lit by a row of street poles which glowed orange. The ones strobing and not working were made up for by the moonlight and the occasional headlights by passing cars. Boaz was still drunk but he managed with his steps all right. 

In all the drunkenness he could still hear a cry. A squall. One of not a grown person or a kid. 

Boaz craned to the public trash bin on the side, where this nose rose from. For a moment the alcohol had him think the trash bin is what was crying. He stumbled towards the smelly bin, looked down on the crying baby and picked her up. The infant was naked and she was at least weeks old from leaving the womb. She was covered in most of the garbage filth, which had been her blanket in this cold cradle. 

Now Boaz held up the foundling in silence. He was still drunk. The infant was pink like that’s skin colour. Boaz almost swayed to fall on his back but his heels held him in time. He couldn’t make out whether he was holding a baby or not, even thought it cried in his hands. The bawl was ten times the volume to his liquor infested mind. She just cried and cried, shaking and curling its tiny feet and hands. 

Boaz just shook his head and burped. His eyes struggled with being open. He dropped the baby back inside the trash bin and lurched back to his nice and warm home.