He sifted through the tattered plastic bag. It had three tears in it, two below the handle, and a gaping one in the middle. It held the wrapper of a snickers bar, a plastic comb, last Sunday’s newspaper, three bus tokens and an empty bottle. He was wearing jeans, a navy blue hoodie for a basketball team he used to watch, and white tennis shoes. He hated those shoes. They were at least a size and a half too small. They pinched his toes at the sides and forced him to curl them inward when he walked. Days when it seemed there was nowhere to go, when someone new claimed his sleeping place, when there were miles to walk without the certainty of safety or sleep, he hated those shoes the most. Sometimes he’d take them off, tie the laces together and carry them dangling around his neck. He longed to take them off, for at least a minute, but knew better. It was too cold for that. He remembered a conversation with an older man who spent most days sitting on a bench near a street corner. “Kid you look smart, but I’ve never met a runaway that’s not stupid. So let me tell you something. Keep your shoes on, kid. Especially in the winter. You take em’ off and the cold will freeze your toes like that.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at his own bare feet. The guy was missing two toes on each foot. He laughed at the kid, as if his expression was the funniest thing he’d seen in his whole life. He laughed until he thought he would cry.

By the time he was fourteen years old, he’d lived with fifteen different foster families. The countless people in charge of finding him a home all seemed to have one job, which was to get rid of him. Find him a place to stay, for a temporary time. They wanted him to be happy, live with a nice family, to be a kid. The thought was almost too sweet. It was like a piece of bubblegum that’s overly sugary when first tasted, but doesn’t last more than ten minutes. He was scared to get comfortable anywhere because he couldn’t stand the thought of having to leave. It was like ripping off a band-aid. The longer he stuck around anywhere, the worse it hurt when he had to be taken somewhere new. He didn’t want them to tell him when to leave-he wanted to be in control. To go when he wanted, to pick where he would go. The social workers called him a runner. They diagnosed him with attachment disorders, meaning he was messed up in the head. He knew to them, he was a burden. A missing link on a chain, a piece to a complex puzzle that needed a place to fit. On the streets, he didn’t fit either. But nobody did. He wasn’t alone because everybody was.
He pictured himself like the character of some movie, the strong tough guy who could take care of himself. He pretended to be going somewhere, on an adventure, a life filled with action and danger. Like Indiana Jones. Most days he walked the streets, pretending he was in a jungle. One guy against the world. He had to keep moving, keep going forward. There wasn’t time to look back.
When he reached the bus stop, he sat down on a cement bench covered in graffiti. He felt invisible, almost weightless, like he could evaporate into thin air. It sure was cold out. And his shoes were at least a size and a half too small. He watched cars accelerate, stop, go, and tried to get a glimpse of the people inside. They always had their eyes fixed on the road ahead of them, except for a occasional child that would peer out the window with wide, curious eyes. Sometimes he would sit at that bus stop for so long, his mind would start playing tricks on him. The people in those cars became people he knew. The drivers were police officers, judges, social workers, and foster parents. They always argued, but didn’t take they’re eyes off the road, hypnotized by the pavement. Their motions were tired. They never looked back. Sometimes he’d see blurry outlines of faces in the passenger side. He knew them, but couldn’t figure out how. He wanted to chase that car, ask them how they knew him, ask who they were, ask who he was. The kid in the backseat never stopped staring. He was unaware of the drivers bickering, detached, but along for the ride. He was young, sometimes he looked five, sometimes twelve. But the eyes were the same. That kid was him.
Suddenly, the smell of bus exhaust brought him back to reality. He grappled for his belongings, shoving them in a plastic bag. When he stood up, he nearly cried out in pain. His feet felt like the life was being pinched out of them. The shoes he wore were too tight, maybe two sizes too small. He climbed the steps of the bus entrance, and handed his last tokens to the driver, who mumbled “Where to?” He sat down in the closest empty seat and stared out the window. “Forward.”