There was grass. It was brown. There was a river. It was dry. There was a big mac. But it was just three buns.

A bottom bun.

A middle bun.

And a top bun, holding its sesame seeds high as a triumphant symbol that things were still good, still fine, still delicious.

But there was no lettuce. No tomato.

He sat by the dry bank on half a bench. One slat for the back and one below. Four sets of empty bolts.

No onions.

The stream had dwindled over the course of a few months. The flow started to recede in January. He first noticed an algae-cloaked handlebar poking above the surface, and then spotted the dry sloping walls of the ill-fated waterway revealing themselves. As the weeks went by, another part of the bike, a shopping trolley or two, plastic bags, bricks, rubble, flytipped bags of who-knows-what. Whatever ancient murk was hidden finally taking its time in the sun.

No patty. No secret sauce. Just those three buns.