So what happens when you're a fugitive from the law? I remember seeing a movie called, ironically, The Fugitive. It starred the dangerously handsome Harrison Ford who was wrongfully accused of killing his wife. Where is my one-armed man to blame? Will I find myself at the end of a turbulent tunnel only to plunge 500 feet into a waterfall?

I may as well... my love is gone.

So I was on the run, still wearing the same clothing I'd been wearing for days. I ached for a shower and a real meal. My feet carried me to a place where Bobbie would volunteer her weekends, the Loaves and Fishes Shelter. I stood in line awkwardly, since the place was always busy. If you made it before sundown, you were likely to get a cot for the night and a conglomerate of mixed food.

I scrawled my name at the registry, which was fine because my signature was nearly identical to the other vagrants there. I filled my stomach with a chowder with potatoes and chicken, found an empty showerstall, and finally scrubbed all the red from myself.

I stood in the shower for what seemed like ages, staring down at the grimey tiled floor, at the brown water swirling into the drain. There goes her blood, away. I used the sandpaper towel they provided at the shelter to dry off, found myself a cot and finally breathed for the first time since finding her.

Vagrants all around tried catching my eye to instigate conversation or dice games, but I blatantly ignored them. I'm not here to make friends.

What am I here for?