"Are you struggling, miss?" I heard a masculine voice ask. I looked up hesitantly to see a tall, skinny man with dark hair and bright eyes. What a wonderful contrast it created. I stared, quickly realizing he was speaking to me. "Me? No, of course not," I replied looking away from him as if he meant nothing to me, as I took out a needle and held it between my teeth. "It looks as if you've cut both yourself and your shirt," he said in a matter-of-fact tone. I looked up at him only with my eyes as he stated the obvious, and threaded my small needle, tying the strands together at the end. I lost interest of this young man making an effort to talk to me quickly. "Do you have a place to live, miss?" He asked in the absence of speaking. "Yes, they alleys and roads are wonderful shelter," I responded with a bit of a bitter tone, for I was annoyed and exhausted. "Oh, that doesn't sound too lovely," he said again in his little obvious tone, and followed the statement with another question, "would you like a place to stay?" I stopped sewing my shirt and looked at him, asking rudely, "Is it 'Interview a Hobo' day, or what? What do you want?" He kept his composure as if he were not bothered by my rudeness, and said, "Well, miss, I want to help you."