In the morning, he'd wake up, stretch a bit and roll up his things into a small bundle and be on his merry way. There was a gym nearby with public access to the showers, where he'd wash his clothes and hang them to dry on a curtain bar somewhere as he brushed, shaved, showered and took care of his other personal grooming.

After that, he hopped on the back of a trolley and got his exercise for the day walking from the trolley stop on the edge of town to the orchard just a mile down the road. He'd pick fruits for three or four hours for the elderly couple living there, get paid enough to buy his meals for the day and take a fruit or two with him as he headed back into town.

His afternoons were spent in the library, reading everything and anything he could get his hands on. Yesterday was a translation of Alexandre Dumas' The Count of Monte Cristo-- today was beginner French.

In the evenings, if he felt like it, he would get something to eat. Today, he wasn't feeling so hungry, so he sat on the trolley again, talking to people who came on. People who looked lonely or sad or tired. He would let them talk to him and let them unburden their souls of the loads they carried.

At night, he would lay out his blanket again and watch the stars hanging over the town, watching him back as he slowly nodded off to sleep.

Life was good.