I walk on the familiar footbridge to my bus stop. I breathe in the acrid fume-filled air, so different from the fresh breeze that passed through my lungs this morning, and my head throbs. I long for my hard mattress, my lone pillow, and the modicum of familiar things in my sparse little room.

I descend the steps to the street below, and then I see it – the 356, that elusive behemoth that offers the best route home. It has already started to pull out of the bus stop. Will I catch it in time? I know I must. It will be a long time before the next one comes along.

As it pulls into the outbound lane, I catch the bus driver’s eye. He could see in my eyes how desperately I longed to be in his bus. It was too late to stop, but he can slow down and I can run. And run I did. My right foot makes contact with the bus’s first step. So far, so good. I take another step. I almost lose my balance. What a travesty it would be to fall from a moving bus! I grab hold of the railing just in time. I pull myself up. I was in!

I look around. It must be my lucky day. There is a lone seat waiting for me. I sink gratefully into the bus seat with its torn upholstery and leaking cushions. I smile. I am going home.