Smokey

A water bottle squashed in his hands, driblets against the inferno, he closed
his eyes.

He removed the hat from his head, held it against his chest with a silent
prayer. He could feel the embers chewing at his fat, and knew it was only a
matter of time. What a fool he was to not heed his own advice.

But you cannot prevent death, can you, Smokey?

You can only hope that the concrete jungle fairs better than the desert.
Maybe your last memory will be of water from above, or maybe you'll get
remade into a Deep Fake.

Samantha tries to write, but the radio is just a little too loud.

Smokey was a finalist in our Annual Drabble contest to capture the year that was 2025 in 100 words.