Dear Anonymous,
Folks are scattered this morning and one young man is arranging his pack under a staircase off the street in an alley.
This is how the hairs on his arms were. Each hair a jungle of drops beginning to collect the dew and the rain. He comes over with a smile.
'I called my parents.' he says with a voice buoyed by something. Maybe hope.
'I wanna' go home.' he continues and the tone goes down an octave.
'I hope they come get me.' he adds with what sounds like a question, a doubt. Maybe fear.
Then,' I miss my little baby girl.'
His daughter is 2 and a half years old.
I hope he can go home.