One little push and a bit of swaying back and forth, and he’s upright again. At the effort, air is pulled from his lungs and passed his teeth, despite himself. With the cold, cold can under his arm, he reaches out to touch the machine again, patting it for a third time.
“Now, that was nice of you, sweetheart,” he says, examining the can, which shows a hologram of an orange, and the tin, which also sports holographics, albeit of sausages in running shoes.
He turns the tin over and over in his fingers, wide eyes peeled on every glint of metal.
A thunk issues from the inner workings this time, followed by a crinkly thump, and soon he’s holding a clear packet of dried vegetable crisps in blue, red, green, orange and purple.
“Oooh, the salty ones, with the purple carrots!” he exclaims, scratching his nose as he looks on the vending machine with newfound respect. “You’re a peach, my pet. But listen, someone’s coming. Best be off. See you soon!”
He pats the machine again, then turns away and walks down the corridor with the crisp packet between his teeth. He turns a corner, and…
A swish of green robes slams into his chest, crunching his crisps.