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He chuckles and grabs a box from the pile of trash beside him. “Oh, girl, I live here.” He makes it sound like a joke, but it’s not funny at all. Not to me.
“I’m sorry,” I reply.
“Oh, don’t be. I’ve made my peace long ago,” he says. “I know where I belong.” He leans back against the wall, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. “I enjoy my freedom.”
“Hmm, I wish I could see things that way.”
Just one of his eyes opens. “Why can’t you?”
“I’m … on the run from my own mistakes.”
I’m not going to tell a stranger about everything I’ve been through.
He waves a hand around. “Everyone makes mistakes. Doesn’t make it impossible to enjoy freedom.”
I gaze around at his carton shack amongst the rubble. “This? This is freedom to you?” I mutter.
“Of course,” he says. “No rules, nothing to watch over, no bills to pay.” He grins. “I prefer this over work any day of the week.”
I’ve never looked at it that way. I’ve been so secluded from the real world that I never realized it could be just as good if not better than the life my father was building for me.
Maybe this … this is the kind of freedom I should want.
“Freedom … freedom of the mind,” Dirk muses, almost as if he’s floating off into his own brain.
And it only makes me smile.
I always thought the people living on the streets were worse off than I was, but now I’m not so sure anymore.
The rain suddenly begins to pitter-patter, and I look at the gray sky. It’s about to break loose. And with nowhere to stay or go, I’m going to get soaking wet soon.
“Here.” Dirk holds out a shoddy, half-broken umbrella to me. “For the rain.”
“Um … Thanks,” I reply, caught off guard.
While I raise it up high, he rummages around in his stash until he finds what he’s looking for. “Ah! I knew I had another one.”
He holds up a giant box made of plastic, big enough to hold a tiny human. Maybe even big enough for me if I pulled my legs up.
He places it near the building right next to me and pats it down, then throws in a ragged blanket he fishes out of his stash. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”
I look at it, wondering what he means.
“Made you a bed,” he muses.
“A bed?” I mutter, flabbergasted. “For me?”
“I just thought you might need a place. I mean, people don’t normally talk to me, so I figured you were in a rough spot just like me.”
Tears well up in my eyes from the sheer kindness this stranger is showing me. “I can’t pay you.”
“I don’t need money,” he says, laughing. “But if you don’t want it, that’s fine too. I won’t force you to stay.”
“No, no,” I say, struggling to keep my voice from fluctuating. “Of course, I’d love to.”
“Why are you crying?” he asks.
I brush aside the tears. “I’m just grateful.” I smile at him as I get up and huddle up in the tiny carton house. “Thank you.”
