I walk to the nearest corner and look at the street signs, but I don’t recognize either of the names. I jog to the next street, much bigger than the last, but there’s still not a name I recognize. I turn slowly, examining the skyline, trying to find a fix for my location—where’s north?—but I find nothing. The morning is light enough that I know the sun has risen, but it’s too overcast to actually see it; instead of sky and sunbeams I see only mist and clouds, infused from behind with a soft, directionless light. I watch the traffic, nearly even in both directions; I can’t even guess a direction by watching the flow. I pick a direction at random and start walking. I fall easily back into the patterns of homelessness, always watching for cops and dogs and any scrap of food or money. I pass a train stop and keep my eyes down, my face obscured from the cameras. My hair is thick and wet, plastered to my skull with grease and old rain. I pass a man in a suit, hurrying past me to the train station, and before I’m aware of it I ask him for change.
