Wheat chaff flew from Alton’s harvester on a hot July afternoon. The machinery chugged along. Nothing interesting to tell his wife that evening.

Suddenly, smoke wafted amid the chaff storm.

Alton turned off the machine, hopped down, and walked to the front. Flames licked from a coating of chaff on the pick-up bearing. He dumped his water bottle over the fire and continued.

Minutes later, smoke wafted again. Dry field, no water. The entire county could burn before help arrived.

Alton paused, looked both ways, then doused the fire.

He zipped his pants. Now he had a story for his wife.

Booted by my mother for flunking and drinking, I was a bad influence on my younger siblings, a blot on the family. She did not understand my pain. No one did. The bullying, the depression, all for being “different.” Excluded.

Now, unwelcome everywhere, I am booted in piss-stained DeWalts stolen from a near-dead wino. I sit looking past the boots at the feet of busy rich strangers. They don’t see me, a blot on the city. Excluded.

At night, furtive, hurting, huddled in a buttonless wool coat, jackpot of a dumpster dive, I warm myself by trashcan fires in filthy alleys. I wonder when’s the last time I brushed my grimy teeth—weeks, months.

Here there is no exclusion. We are family. Nobody asks questions. Everyone grubby is welcome for a moment of warmth, of acceptance. That’s all there is. Still, even without the vodka that I once used to escape the pain, it is enough.

Until today.

A garbage truck rumbled through our alley. Two grimy men hefted cans and bins and dumped them into the butt-mouth of the smelly rig. Before the truck crawled forward to the next bin, the guy who tended our fires--Roland, a skinny guy with the red beard and matted fur coat--climbed into the hopper and pawed the refuse for anything remotely edible, wearable, or usable.

The rig jerked forward, tossing Roland out onto the pavement. He landed on his head and lay still.

We all rushed to him, six or seven of us. We hollered at the garbage men, but they were rumbling out onto the street. They didn’t hear us. All we got was a lungful of diesel fumes.

Roland was dead.

Officials came and loaded the body into a medical examiner’s wagon and hauled it away like so much refuse. A few questions from police, and it was over.

Yup. Over. That’s when I realized . . . I decided . . . I’m done. No more. I cannot go on like this. I cannot end up like Roland.

The night is moonless and the bridge quiet. The river is a long drop down, cold and swift as my life. So will be my passing.

What’s at the bottom has to be better than this. Hell, I’m already there, at the bottom. No one knows I’m here.

No one will know I’m gone.

Ellie opened the heavy door to the south wing. The lock clicked behind her.

In room 17 she found Marian knitting. “Hello, Marian. Another scarf?”

“Yes, for my daughter. She’s in seventh grade. Who are you?”

“I’m your--I’m Ellie. I brought more yarn.”

“Good. My husband will like the brown.”

Ellie set the yarn on the dresser, next to the wedding picture from 1962. She kissed Marian’s forehead. “See you Thursday.”

“Okay. Bring yarn. Brown would be good.”

The nurse activated the unlock buzzer. Ellie wiped her eyes and wrapped her hand-knitted scarf around her head, against the December wind.