Ron takes a big swallow, then coughs some of it up. And get out of the cold. Button slides the bottle in his pocket, gives his chain a tug. You better move on. Wind's gettin' nasty.
Newspapers lift up the vertical shaft of the alley like small printed angels.
Windows have been lit up for a while, and the smell of cooking mixes with the sour urine and rotting garbage below. I'll be along. Button is already made more visible under the street light. He pries off the tin top, stirs the contents with a finger, and picks one. He tosses it to Ron.