Nobody told me to leave.
So I stayed.
That night, the cold settled into my bones.
I had one thin jacket.
No blanket.
I put my bag under my shirt because I was afraid someone would steal it.
The ground was too cold to lie down.
So I slept sitting up.
Or tried.
Every sound woke me.
Cars.
Dogs.
Wind.
At one point, a thin stray dog stood near the edge of the churchyard.
Brown fur.
One white paw.
Its ribs showed.
It watched me.
I watched it.
Neither of us moved closer.
Somewhere around dawn, I whispered.
“At least you know where you belong.”
The dog tilted its head.
Then walked away.
When the sun began rising, I stood.
My legs were numb.
My stomach was empty again.
I looked toward the hills.
That was when I remembered the cave.
Old women in Cedar Valley used to tell stories about it.
