As he puffed on an old cigarette, he grabbed a pile of plastic, paper and wood thrown in front of his shack and stated a fire so he could cook something for his children to eat.
The thick and toxic black smoke from the burning plastic made me cough.
I coughed more. My lungs fought for clean oxygen.
He stopped laughing and stared at me.
No words were needed.
Morning, Smokie Mountain slums, Manila.