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   Cold.   A cold that came in from the dark and found a home in your body, its offspring born in the marrow of your bones.   The kind of cold that radiates from the inside, that makes you want to stay in bed rolled up in blankets for hours until that feeling of hollowness, death's precursor, is finally drawn out.   A bed...quilts, tokens in a faded memory of a numb mind.   The chill has been entrenched in your bones for the past month and has no intention to leave, a lich, the monster, killing and preserving its prey, an eternal trophy of its triumph for entropy and universal order.

   Your wool blanket, purchased military surplus, has ice interwoven between its threads where exposed to nature's whims, its underside chilled dampness.   Whether a result of melted ice or if the ice formed from wet clothing, it is now irrelevant and forgotten.   The worn olive drab jacket you huddle in, that you bought with the blanket, is threatening to give passage to the water leaching its way through the layers to your skin to your life's warmth.   Gusts of whipping wind push needles into your skin.   Broken boxes you borrowed little comfort from the asphalt.   Even here, leaning your head on your old canvas backpack which is in turn buttressed against a cinder block wall, a furnace still burns inside, blowing clouds defiant against the sky.   Fire will soon crack the sky, and would warm the earth and melt the ice.

   It wasn't supposed to be this way.   You were supposed to be far south of here months ago.   What happened?   You can't remember.   The lich numbs your mind and body, a blessing, but isn't it bad?   A whisper tells you something, but it can't be made to be understood.   It is a mutter in a higher language, like Shakespeare to a child, when little other than survival is the purpose of you mind; the same as all of the beasts of the winter.   Stirring, straining to understand this voice stirs awareness of something yet to be done, a need to move before you are moved.

   A steel door is kicked open with a violent force, breaking the seal of the concrete barrier.   A pretty young thing in a white smock, warmed in a thick fuzzy jacket, unzipped, but with the hood up.   It was purchased for all the wrong reasons, deep pink and high cut so it showed off fertile hips and tight jeans, and snug for the effect of showing off.   Broken down cardboard boxes leaked out of her arms and hid the still intruders from her sight.   She was there for the crusher, and rocked back on her heels at the sight of the men.

   "Oh!   Sorry."

   There was shame, empathy, but mostly apprehension at the debris she had stumbled across behind her grocery store.   It was this she apologized for, her shame.   Here is nothing not seen scores of times a day, but not normally here in this small town.   She tiptoed through her task, while all the time trying to hurry; imagining further, and darker interaction while all the time increasing her shame.   A feeling shared by everyone involved, yet each had a separate reason for that shame.   Only half the cardboard made into the crusher before nerves give out and the girl rushed inside.   Later, she would sign up for rape defense classes.

   "Carl, we need to go."

   "Hombre, I can't feel my feet."

   "We need to get moving, the sun is up," muttered voices, only heard between the men because of the shelter afforded by the wall.   "Let's go."

   "I hurt...”

   "You think that blisters on my foot are helping me?   It's not going to get any less infected in the miles to go today."

   Just climbing to your feet sets off a coughing fit.   More clouds to join the sky, another gift of the lich from weeks ago.   The blanket was rolled, crackling back in protest, slipped into the ties of your backpack.   The sun had just cleared the eastern hillside, its rays cold comfort to your body, yet painful to the eyes.   Have to keep moving...have to find the train south...have to outrun the lich...

   Another day passing through another small town, holding another group of small people...but no,   they are just passing through life, grasping onto whatever little things they can for whoever they care for.   It is not so different then where you grew up, big-family homes, green lawns, farmland, sandy beaches.   Not a willful ignorance, but a fear of those things hidden, and a determination that those things would not enter the borders of their town, a line in the manicured lawn.

   You don't want to be there anymore then they want you, but there is a railroad passing through here somewhere on its way south, moving between the forests of bare trees separated by the fallow fields and cul-de-sac's, their residents tucked in and unseen, grousing weather that would never touch their lips.   Few people travel down the road you're on this morning, even comfortable in their steel armor, one with a wide-eyed child who couldn't figure out why anyone would possibly be walking the roads this early.

   But the train, just one was needed to ride, and their tracks were everywhere here.   Just a depot was needed, or even a junction, just a place where they slow for a moment.   Amtrak used these lines all day between New York and Baltimore, but better a B&O freight line and a gentleman to look the other way.   These pair of endless grey ribbons was the guidelines to be followed, and passed.   To the south was warmth, and rumors of work to be had.   It has to be better than remaining here.   Derbies were not welcomed by whitewashed trim and brick.   It was shooed along or worse, picked up by those whose job it was to take care of such menial things.

   The iron ribbons were found, which soon passed into the forest, where leafless white cedars and some patchy pine held sway, tall and slim trucked.   The also seemed to be in conspiracy, denying anything that didn't meet their fancy, soaking up the warmth of the sun for themselves.   But they couldn't stop the subtle sounds and musky scents of nature drifting though the haze of earth and mind, recalling a youth of trips to a forest somewhat like this, a place of mystery and pleasure away from its steel and rock counterpart.   As different as Mother and Father.   Memories only interrupted by a scurry from the rhythmic thunder of a passing train, or the pang of hunger of a stomach long past growling.   The sun momentarily showed itself in the slit formed by the tracks, but disinterested in the view, fell into the trees opposite.   Not even the sun for companionship, so far away.   At least it had this excuse.   Anymore the wooded forest seemed little different then the concrete jungle.   In either there was no home, no kinship.   There was a break in the line, a defect in the programming, which isolated one from the others, allowing an outsiders view of time and flow.

   Carlos was no different.   Not a buddy, or companion, but a fellow traveler...no, not in any philosophical sense, just someone that you could trust to watch your back that is in the same place as you. Where did you meet?   Saint Louis? Five months ago?   You could guess the tale of his past, but it had never come up unless some piece of it mattered in the moment. It was enough that he was here, today, even when little was spoken together.   And memories returned.

   How many miles had been passed the past few years by leather, rubber or steel?   It certainly wasn't age that weighed you down.   Who would have thought it would be you on this path?   The moment that you snapped, did you care it would lead you here?   And by the true test of all decisions, would you have done it if you saw yourself walking these tracks here on this winter day?   Most days the answer would be an emphatic, 'Yes!'   On a day like this, would you finally admit to yourself, 'no...'?   Any day it could end.   Just eat the crow, you've had worse.   The thought pushes you along the rails.

   Miles and hours pass like this, until the forest itself gives in to barren fields dry and fallow for the winter.   The next Rockwell town, another pearlescent on an iron string, sloped off to the fore, gently down to the water’s edge of a widening bay.   'The Chesapeake', a young voice calls from inside.   More small shops, clean homes, tidy lawns, open streets and docks for each and every fishing boat.   More memories unearth and bridge a score of years with ten times as many miles.   Why were they so persistent today?   At least you weren't so cold anymore.   Really, you were sweating in your heat. This would have to be the town, the trains would stop here.   All that was needed now was the kind veil of darkness, and an opportunity.   The skies were already beginning their shift in color.

   "I need some food.   I haven't eaten anything since yesterday."

   "Take some of my Jerky.   We can rest in the bush."

   "No Carl, still have twenty bucks, I'm going into town."

   "I will come also."

   More stares, avoidance, tongues wagging in tempo with heads.   It is nothing you haven't seen a thousand times before, but today it seems to hurt a little more.   Matted hair and broken nails, a rough beard kept to protect your face, no work had meant no money for a shower, and the rivers were too cold to bathe even if they weren't iced over; best efforts had been made in gas stations, stripped bare with a washcloth and soap, a little effort to keep the pests away, an attempt to maintain some dignity.   The masses will believe what they want, but they can't take what's important away from you, only you can surrender those.   Every stare will be met.   You will never be bullied again.

   A 7-11 lies in in the center of the town, with nothing notable, not a thing distinct between it and hundreds of others you've seen.   It serviced travelers along the highway dissecting the town, providing that comfort of sameness.   You knew what you needed, and it would have it.   Something simple, a bag sunflower seeds, something to chew on until better could be had.   The Fates had decided to throw even this moment upside-down, twisting strings, separating them and recombining them into something new, for a novel fabric.

   You didn't even have a chance to enter the store.   A lanky man with his features hidden under a mask of the president and a pistol in hand held the store, the cashier was conditioned to start no trouble, and the other customers could hardly be seen, cowered in far corners like mice.

   "...redistribute the wealth, now!"   He bounced in an adrenalin rush as the cashier struggled with the drawer.   Change sprayed on the laminated orange counter and the beige tiled floor.

   "Just calm down please, I'm cooperating,   Don't shoot."

   "Stick it in paper bag, there. You two hobo's, keep that door open!"   The stick-up man had a practiced calm to his voice, and slid through the door in an instant with the cash, pausing for just a moment.   "Thanks, man.   Here's a Lincoln, you look like you two could use it more than me."   And with that he was gone.   A getaway car crashed up the curb from across the street, nearly clipping one of the parked cars in its arcing movement, and whisked him away.

   "Don't touch that money, Grey.   We'll be criminals."

   "We already are.   We held the door.   The cops will make us accessories."

   "The people here will speak for us, it's fine.   It'll be a warm bunk and meal tonight."

   "No, no way."

   "You run, they will say you're guilty."

   "I can't be brought in.   I can't have a record.   I'm leaving, catch up with me south."

   Of course they would take us in.   Look at us, we obviously need the money.   The robber would never shame himself to wearing clothes like these.   He had his pride too, but it moved him in an opposing direction to your own.   What was pride worth?   Who was right?   This wasn't the time for understanding.   It was time to find a dark corner to disappear into.

    Where can you go?   Back north was the woods, and the tracks.   Maybe the next train is passing by.   The cops would have to be arriving at the 7-11 now.   Maybe Carlos can clear things up, and running was all for nothing.   Just keep moving, faster, so what if they stare?   Ignore the stabs of foot pain, the wheeze in your throat, keep going.   Anything else will end in a cell.   Keep moving.   Fuck, no train.   Follow the tracks south, down the grade.

   But the tracks betray you to an engorged bay lying across your path.   A long, slow flowing river, some half a mile wide cut the southwest edge of town.   Cold sweat from the flight and fear becomes overwhelming...but wait...the train passes through...keep moving.   It isn't a complete betrayal, the tracks provided a way high on an old rusting bridge, open topped, created in without flair many decades ago.   Just wide enough for a train to pass over, but little extra spared for anything else.   A loose wire hung off of series of posts on a single side, an attempt at a guardrail.   If a train passed while crossing, there might be enough to hang off on the open air side of the wire.   If not, well, it would be a body in the distant water below or a bug grease on the engine.   No one would miss a little less debris.   Today could be the last, but so could have yesterday, and so might tomorrow, but the choice would still be yours, as is the next step.

   And you pass through the expanse of water, suspended on a narrow steel edge; to escape the moment, running from the past.   The rays of the setting winter sun striking the water, setting fire to the bay with crimson, vermillion and golden flames contained in a verdant bowl.   It was beauty that could not be escaped, even if neglected in the moment, smiting the soul.

   The russet span finally at your back, you return to earth, sliding down a steep gravel embankment held by a concrete retaining wall, landing in a pile of fallen leaves swept up against the ledge by the wind, and release that breath that you held in for the past twenty minutes.   Another forest lined this side of the river, with vines crawling up the trees and roots exposed by the tides.   No train passed you on the bridge.   Neither sirens nor footfalls are heard behind you.   It seems the Fates have smiled on your decision.   Better to not defy them; best to find a deep hole to hide in for the night, and perhaps some food.   This might not even be the same county, if they would be so kind.

   Twilight was embracing the land, both a blessing and a curse.   The gravel and sand of the beach is the best guide for the sightless, away from roots, rodent holes and brush that existed even on well-trodden paths here, where the critters crash as you disturb their home.   The shore would lead to the next town you saw from the bridge, held in the niche formed by the river and the bay.   The wind shifts, moving back in the direction of the water and into your ears, and the chill returns.   Another cold, hungry night, and on the run, the thought of which chokes you with desperation.   The furnace was getting hotter, and threatened to burn out flushed skin.

   With time, and distance, you pass into a clearing, dwelling in the undefined space between forest and town, near a isolated structure which lie silhouetted against the backdrop of the town's glow.   A single light distinguishing it, hung off a steel pipe curved into a 'S' shape, with a porcelain cover, high over its front side.   A warehouse, or a boathouse?   Its rear end anyway hung off into the water.   For what could be distinguished, trimmed in the light of the rising moon, It had been here many years, with a brick providing a firm base to waist high, the remainder raised in wood and capped in shingle, with large windows to maximize the working light back in its day.   However, all of which was in serious disrepair, giving it a feel of age that perhaps it didn't deserve, even a haunted feel.   It imposed its presence between forest and town, surrounded in unkempt grasses and weeds lying dormant.   A road that was once gravel years ago, now remnants of stone, mud and dandelions left its impression, led a hundred feet from a road proper to its front.

   This is dark, and quiet, but no food.   Food may have to wait now.   Would you dare show up at a store now anyways?   A boat, a tarp, something could be here, something dry.

   Had it been painted blue once?   The wood siding had withered and greyed from the elements, you had to search deep to find paint chips to the contrary.   But someone bothered to leave a light on, which means it has power, and was desired by someone.   A workshop?    They would be home for the night, and it would at least be warm, and hidden, and trespassing...

   Still there is possibility.   The whole thing must be easily two stories and three, perhaps four times longer than it was wide.   Another coughing fit threatens to expose you, fortunately, but only to the squirrels this far out of town.   The next closest building, far down the road, shown like a beacon.   Light cascaded out the windows of the raised building, and illuminated its deck and overhang, and the many vehicles surrounding it in a gravel lot; but it was still a quarter-mile down the road, uphill on an embankment.   A bar, or perhaps a restaurant.   Nothing would come out of it as long as you stay out of the light.

   And that light, it reflected brightly off of a new (or at least recently added), rolling galvanized bay door, screamingly out of place on the old wood.   Wait..a second set of doors out of the light around the corner from the bay door, out of sight of the street, a tall, sturdy double door, windowless and plain.   Off-white, they were easy to miss in the dark, except for their condition, seemingly installed near the same time as the bay door.   Windows, all the multipaned windows would shed no light on the buildings contents.   They had been obscured from the inside, all of them with white spray paint, each one thoroughly, from their base at waist level to their top far above reach.   The hoot of a waking barn owl, a resident perhaps, startles you, and breaks the tension.   Something like a chuckle escapes your lips as you try the bay end.

   The waters of the bay concave gently towards the warehouse, and lap against a concrete slab that protruded a dozen feet into the water, in effect acting as a dock deep enough for a small boat.   Whatever the original intent of this structure, it must have involved trade from the waters.   Another set of heavy wood doors on hinges, these the same vintage as the warehouse, bared this way in.   These were bound closed in heavy chain, and had also fell into the same disarray as the building, the wood at the base where the doors came together splintered and broken.   A way in?   A child could squeeze through.   You push your jacket through, and blanket, the backpack would have to remain outside to be retrieved in the morning.   The fit was tight, taking several minutes to slide various body parts through, but you're in, and it is warm, real warm.

   Another sneezing fit, encouraged by falling dust tickling the nose during the squeeze in, nearly doubles you over in a moment where you should be focused on everything else, of what could be seen in this new world of shadows hidden inside black.   Little moonlight filtered through the painted windows, just not quite enough, even for eyes used to the darkness.   But the warmth, it backhands you all out of proportion to its strength, too warm for a workshop/warehouse/fishhouse or whatever.   Still, it is quiet, just some far distant rock music as the bar ramps up its night.   Inside, the forms of shadows take sharper forms, and give confidence to safe exploration.

   A dark corner, and god willing, something soft, hay, or a bag of rice, and then your out in the morning before the light for some food.   Even with that little twilight that leaked through the window, it was not what was expected.   No pallet racks, no pallets even, no crates, boxes, bags.   The outlines of what could be a table saw and upright forms...cabinets, could be seen in the corner nearest him, but the dominate feature for what could be made out was empty space.

   Caution dictated escaping the unexpected, moving on, however faint blue light on the other side of the floor catches the attention, and pulls you in deeper into the unknown.   Slow footfalls on concrete become hushed on something.   A rug?   Your chest bumps into some huge sofa.   End tables?   A television?   But the light, it is from a refrigerator.   The thought of food so close....you've never been so low as to steal.   You have money...It is not stealing if you pay for it.   Next to the stainless steel fridge is a fruit basket.   Just an apple, and some water, and a slice of bread, that's worth about a dollar....then you leave.

   An apple never tasted so juicy, and it consumes you as you do it.   The darkness passes closer, but it's overbearing nature ignored.

   "WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOME!?!"   The darkness speaks with a full, hard voice.

   Something clubs you from above, or many things, as the world spins so violently that you feel like you are going to be flung into space, then everything goes black.