Dylan was seated with his back to a pole, leaning forward as he drew by the dim light that one of the street lamps afforded him. His art had gotten less dark lately, more languid, more rivers and streams oddly shaped faces than safe-houses and jungles and blood that had to be colored pink because he only had pastel chalk. He was sitting cross-legged, with a pile of chalk pieces he had stolen from a playground in a pile beside his knee, and a small bottle with a white cap near his ankles. He looked up instinctively when he heard footsteps, but visibly relaxed when he realized it was Dave. He smiled, he was happy to see the older man.
"Hey." He called, and raised his hand in a small wave.