Levitown, 3:30pm

This isn't my piss. I can tell because my boxers aren't wet. It's only my pant leg. Someone pissed on me in the night. I experience something akin to the process of grief, but crystallized in one moment.
I look down at my hands. Hoping the answers are written there.
They aren't.
But there is dirt worked into my palms, like I've been digging in a garden. I try to spit on them, but can't muster a droplet. I think for a moment of wringing my pants for urine, but scrap the idea and decide to look for a bathroom instead.

to be continued.