Shelterless

by Lucy Elliott (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection USA

I knew only two things. One: the entire world was waiting at my feet. Two: I was completely and entirely alone. "Travel," my father had told me sternly, dropping me off at the airport, "changes you. The world is out there waiting for you, Lucy. This is the age that you should be finding yourself." I'd come to the United States with only a backpack on my back and a return flight home. But not a single one of my nineteen years alive felt like they'd prepared me for this. Lost in the never-ending trees and ever-lasting wilds of upstate New York, I could very well have been transported to a new planet entirely. My mind struggled to grasp the hugeness of it all. My little island had not prepared me for this New World that made everything about me so small by comparison. Wilderness, more powerful and vast than I ever could have imagined, reigned wherever I walked. Every step onwards was a revelation, making me fall further and further into the strange mix of exhilarating terror that gripped me with one hand, and the awe that now pushed me forwards with another. A single truth was clear: I was a long way from home. Three-thousand, three-hundred, and thirty-two miles to be exact. My sleepy little village in northern England was as distant from me as a different galaxy. Although sometimes I could forget it for a while when other people were around me, here I could feel every inch of it. Out of nowhere came a siren call amongst the nervous silence. An engine. The sound of human life should've excited me. But years of being alive had made me wary too. Back in England, I'd be less afraid. We were a small country, and even in the most rural areas, the chances of somebody hearing a cry were high. But I wasn't in England anymore. The van slowed, even as a part of me wished it didn't. "Hey there." A man's face appeared in the window: old, rugged, smiling. His hair appeared unwashed, his clothes stained with more wrinkles than his face. The type of person I'd been taught to remain apprehensive of. "Taking a walk?" My voice was hesitant, betraying the tingling nerves that ruled over me. "Yes, I was trying to. I think I'm lost." "You're most definitely lost," he agreed. "Needing a lift?" I was suddenly conscious of myself. My young face. The single, beaten-up backpack I struggled to haul along. My lack of experience. “No, thank you. But could I have some directions?” “Where are you heading to?” “Poughkeepsie.” “Really? Sweetie, you’ll be walking well into the night to get back there. Let me give you a lift.” I’d been walking for hours. And I had my mobile phone on me if I needed it. “Okay,” I agreed, fuelled by desperation. That was how I ended up in the passenger seat of a stranger's truck. Discarded papers and blankets filled every available surface, although the man was kind enough to move them aside. “I can take you part of the way,” he told me as the engine started. “Drop you off near someplace you can find a bus. That’ll be your easiest way back.” “Thank you.” “Don’t mention it. You’re British, aren’t you? You’re a long way from home for someone so young.” “Yeah. What about you?” “What about me?” “Where are you from?” I wasn’t good enough at reading Americans to pick up their accents. He tapped on the wheel, chuckling. “This is my home.” “But where do you live?” The man shook his head, gesturing to the back of the van. “My home is where I sleep.” We chatted amicably for the rest of the drive. By the end, I didn’t feel afraid. I thanked him with teary eyes and tried to give him all the loose change I had on me, although he refused. It was only when the truck disappeared from sight that I realised I never found out his name. My rescuer and I were both shelterless. We were both alone. But while my England still existed somewhere out there, his no longer did.