I don't like it here. It's their ground, not mine. But that's my life. I'm always wishing I were somewhere else. Ahead I see the orange sparkle of a campfire.
Figures sit and lie near it, warming their hands, speaking in drowsy murmurs.
One of my shoes, worn out but maybe not worn out enough, slips into the water. And the figures disappear, soundless as roaches. All but one. Not an auspicious beginning. I hold back a sigh.