Waking up, thinking you are home and about to have breakfast with Mom and Dad, but the room is empty (except for you), the bed is old, the floors are wooden, and there is only one dim light that works (to your right). It's barely past 2pm. There are men speaking just outside your door and you can't understand them.
Waking up, and your bed is more narrow than a twin; you turn and you touch the floor. The blankets are stiff and you only have one pillow and it's kind of flat.
The sandwich is mostly bread and butter.
Your socks and shoes like sponges, your feet churning them with every step. You feel your skin begin to prune.
You don't have a bank account here, an address here, a phone plan with internet, no friend's home where you can stay. Il faut une adresse. Il faut avoir un gérant.
They are setting up the fair.
Dog poop everywhere.
