Late, late, late was all I could think. I was running and weaving through the crowd, desperate to reach the train before it pulled away, and for a second I thought I would make it and I'd just be a few minutes late for class and the teacher sort of liked me anyway, so it would be ok even though this would be the fifth time I was late. There was this great moment when the seas parted and I had a clear path, and for a second everything was alright. Then, suddenly - I'm not sure how - everything in my bag was lying on the ground and I couldn't take it anymore, and I didn't scurry to get my papers and my books and my dreams, I just stood there gazing out at everyone, begging them to care enough to help. They didn't meet my eyes, they chatted amiably to themselves or kept their heads down and hurried past, and I knew I couldn't do it alone, I would never be able to do it alone, it was too big and I was too small and nobody cared and I was all alone and my god how I hated them all in that second. And then...

"Is this yours?"

I can't remember what she looked like, except that her eyes were big and brown and dark and warm. Her eyes were all I saw, here eyes and the book she held out to me, my battered copy of On the Road. I stood for a few seconds, looking from her eyes to the book and back.

"Thank you."

I took the book, my eyes locked on hers now. She smiled, sadly but sympathetically, and slowly turned her head and walked away.

"Thank you," I said again, this time whispering it to the air where she had stood, and started to cry, and started to gather my books.

back to the highway that never ends