The Heat in the Concrete

The wind didn't just blow; it stripped. It peeled the heat off Dray’s skin like it was scraping paint from a fender. He was running, or shuffling fast, trying to keep his center of gravity low so the gusts coming off Portage and Main didn’t throw him into the intersection. The traffic lights swung violently on their wires, red, then green, then yellow, signaling to nobody. The streets were empty. At forty below, the city of Winnipeg stopped pretending it was a place for humans and became a geology experiment. Just ice, wind, and the stone cliffs of the banks.

Dray ducked into the alcove of an abandoned department store. The glass doors were papered over with ads for a liquidation sale that happened three years ago. He pressed his back against the brick. It sucked the warmth right out of his jacket. A Jets jersey over two hoodies, a flannel shirt, and a thermal undershirt that had lost its elasticity. It wasn't enough. It was never enough. His toes were numb blocks of wood inside his boots. He stomped them against the concrete, a dull *thud-thud* that didn't travel up his legs. He couldn't feel the impact. That was bad. That was the start of the frostbite clock ticking down.

He checked his pockets. A lighter that sparked but didn't flame. Half a pack of spearmint gum that had shattered into shards in the cold. A transit pass with zero balance. He needed inside. The skywalks were locked tight. Security guards patrolled the heated tubes like they were guarding a spaceship, looking down on the street rats with bored disdain. Dray had been kicked out of the library at closing, then the mall food court, then the Tim Hortons on Graham. Now he was just meat in the freezer.

He pushed off the wall. Moving was better than thinking. If he stopped, he’d start thinking about his mom’s place in the North End, the smell of bleach and stale beer, the way the radiator hissed but never got hot. He’d think about the arguments that ended with doors slamming and him walking out into the snow because the cold was easier to deal with than the shouting. At least the cold was honest. It just wanted to kill you. It didn't say it loved you first.

He turned down a side street, aiming for the exhaust vents behind the arena. Sometimes they blew warm air. Sometimes they just blew dust and popcorn smell. The wind here was a physical weight, pushing him back. He lowered his head, chin tucked into his scarf. The wool was wet from his breath, freezing into a stiff crust against his mouth. It smelled like wet dog and exhaust.

He saw the glow before he felt the heat. It wasn't the harsh sodium orange of the streetlights or the blue-white of the LEDs. It was a soft, sickly yellow, pulsating from behind a dumpster that was overflowing with cardboard boxes. Dray slowed down. His boots crunched on the hard-packed snow. The sound was too loud in the empty street. *Crack. Crack.* Like breaking bones.

He rounded the dumpster. A man was sitting there. He was sitting in a plastic lawn chair, the kind you buy for ten bucks at a hardware store in July. He was wearing a parka that looked like it had been patched with duct tape and tin foil. He had a toque pulled down low, and ski goggles reflecting the weird yellow light.

"Close the door," the man said. His voice was scratchy, like sandpaper on rust.

Dray looked around. There was no door. Just the alley, the brick wall of the arena, and the open street behind him. "What?"

"The draft. You're letting the draft in. Stand there." The man pointed a gloved finger at a specific spot on the asphalt, right between a pile of frozen garbage bags and a rusted drainpipe.

Dray stepped into the spot. He didn't want to argue. He just wanted to see what the source of the light was. He expected a fire. Maybe a barrel burning pallets. But there was no smoke. No smell of burning wood or melting plastic. Just a smell like… wet dirt? Greenhouse air. Rich and humid.

"Name's Spoon," the man said, not looking up. He was staring at the ground between his feet.

"Dray."

"Okay, Dray. Don't step on the crop."

Dray looked down. In the center of the asphalt, in a crack that shouldn't have been there, something was growing. It looked like a dandelion, but wrong. It was the size of a cabbage, its leaves thick and fleshy, pulsing with veins that glowed that sickly yellow. And it was hot. Dray could feel the radiation coming off it, hitting his shins through his jeans. It was warmer than a space heater.

"What is that?" Dray asked. His voice cracked. He hadn't spoken in hours.

"City heat," Spoon said. He leaned forward and held his hands out to the plant, rubbing them together. "Found it this morning. Thought it was a gas leak at first. But gas don't smell like fertilizer."

Dray crouched down, careful to stay in the spot Spoon had indicated. The warmth was incredible. It washed over him, thawing his nose, making his ears burn as the blood rushed back. He pulled his gloves off. His fingers were red and raw. He held them out.

"It's… growing?" Dray said. "In this?"

"It's eating the concrete," Spoon said matter-of-factly. "Look."

Dray squinted. Around the base of the plant, the asphalt wasn't just cracked; it was mushy. Grey paste. The roots of the thing were digging in, visibly churning. A tiny pebble of aggregate popped out of the slurry and rolled away.

"That's not possible," Dray mumbled. He felt dizzy. Maybe he was already hypothermic. Maybe he was passed out in a drift somewhere and this was the dying dream. The brain firing off the last of its neurons in a fireworks display of impossible botany.

"Everything's possible when the weather gets this stupid," Spoon said. He reached into his coat and pulled out a bag of chips. Salt and Vinegar. He offered the bag to Dray. "Breakfast."

Dray took a chip. It tasted sharp and salty. Real. He chewed slowly. "Why are you out here?"

"Rent went up," Spoon said. "Landlord said he was renovating. Kicked everyone out. Now the building's empty. Just sitting there warm, with nobody in it. So I found this. This is better. No lease."

The wind howled outside the alley, a high-pitched shriek that rattled the metal dumpster lids. But here, in the radius of the plant, the air was still. It was bizarre. The heat seemed to create a pressure zone, a bubble of silence.

Dray watched the plant pulse. It was rhythmic. *Thrum… thrum… thrum.* Like a heartbeat. "You think it's radioactive?"

"Maybe," Spoon said. He crunched a chip. "Or maybe the earth is just pissed off. Trying to take the street back. I saw a tree on Main Street last week trying to strangle a parking meter. Roots wrapped right around the coin slot. We pushed too hard, kid. Now the ground is pushing back."

Dray rubbed his face. The thaw was painful now. Pins and needles stabbing his cheeks. "I got nowhere to go," he said. The words fell out before he could stop them. He hated saying it. It sounded weak.

Spoon didn't look at him. He just nodded at the asphalt. " plenty of heat. Just don't block the light. It likes the streetlamp."

They sat in silence for a while. Dray sat on his heels, then sat fully on the ground. The pavement was warm. Dry. It felt impossible. He leaned back against the dumpster, which was also warm where the plant's light hit it.

He closed his eyes. For a second, he was back in his aunt’s car, the heater blasting, driving down McPhillips to get groceries. Safe. Bored. He missed being bored. Boredom was a luxury. Out here, you were never bored. You were scared, or you were hurting, or you were hunting for something.

"You think it'll last?" Dray asked, opening his eyes.

"Until the city finds it," Spoon said. "They'll pave it over. Or poison it. Can't have free heat. Bad for the economy."

The plant seemed to flare brighter for a second, casting long, warped shadows against the brick wall. The shadows didn't match the objects casting them. The shadow of the dumpster looked like a crouching animal. Spoon’s shadow looked like a tree.

Dray reached out and touched one of the thick, yellow leaves. It felt like leather. It vibrated against his fingertip. A low hum traveled up his arm, settling in his chest. It didn't feel like a plant. It felt like an engine.

"Careful," Spoon warned. "It bites."

Dray pulled his hand back. "Bites?"

"Saw it catch a rat earlier. Roots snapped up like a trap. Dragged the sucker right into the pavement. Gone in ten seconds. That's where the heat comes from. Digestion."

Dray stared at the grey slush around the roots. He scooted back a few inches. "Jesus."

"Circle of life," Spoon said, unbothered. "Rat eats the trash. Plant eats the rat. We soak up the heat. Better than the shelter. At least here you know who's eating who."

Dray looked at Spoon. The man’s face was hidden behind the goggles and the scarf, but his eyes were visible now, pale and tired. There was no madness there. Just a flat, exhausted acceptance of the absurdity.

"You got family?" Spoon asked.

"Yeah," Dray said. " somewhere."

"Keep it that way. Family freezes too. Everything freezes except this thing."

A police cruiser rolled past the mouth of the alley. The blue and red lights washed over the snow, clashing with the plant’s yellow glow. The cruiser slowed down, then sped up. They didn't see them. Or maybe they did, and they just didn't care. Two lumps in an alley weren't worth the paperwork on a night this cold.

Dray let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "They didn't stop."

"Invisibility field," Spoon said, tapping the side of his head. "People don't see what they don't want to see. They see trash. They don't see the garden."

Dray looked at the "garden." One carnivorous, glowing mutant cabbage in a patch of dissolving concrete. It was the ugliest thing he had ever seen. It was beautiful.

He felt a strange sensation in his chest. Not heartburn. Not the panic that usually lived there. It was lighter. Hope? No, hope was too big a word. Hope was for people with bank accounts and front doors. This was just… leverage. A tiny advantage in a rigged game.

"Can I stay?" Dray asked. "Just for a bit?"

Spoon tossed him the bag of chips. It was mostly empty now. "Till it blooms. Once it blooms, we probably gotta move. Pollen might be toxic."

"Blooms?" Dray looked at the tight cluster of leaves in the center.

"Yeah. It's getting ready. Gonna be a big one."

Dray settled in. He adjusted his scarf, loosening it now that the air wasn't trying to strangle him. He listened to the hum of the plant and the distant sound of a snowplow scraping the street. *Scrape, scrape, scrape.* The sound of the city fighting the winter. Losing, slowly, but fighting.

He watched the roots ripple. The grey paste bubbling. It was surreal. The world had broken, physics had given up, and nature had decided to improvise. And here he was, sitting in the front row with a bag of salt and vinegar crumbs.

"Hey Spoon," Dray said softly.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me. Thank the mutant cabbage."

Dray looked at the plant. "Thanks," he whispered.

The plant didn't answer. It just hummed, louder now, a vibration that rattled Dray's teeth. A single drop of yellow sap oozed from a leaf and hit the pavement with a hiss, melting another inch of the city. The circle widened. The heat grew. Dray closed his eyes and let the impossible warmth soak into his bones, forgetting, for just a moment, the ice waiting outside the circle.