Homelessness in the Nation’s Oldest City
By Ryan Day | email@example.com
It is hours before sunrise on Wednesday morning and I am awakened by two raccoons crawling on me.
I rip my sleeping bag off my shivering body only to have a wild possum standing up, arms outstretched, teeth snarled, screaming like a banshee. I bolt out of my makeshift bed underneath the 312 bridge and scream as though the heavens above needed to hear my cries. I am cold. I am alone. I am terrified. I am in over my head.