The creepy old house smells like three-month-old kitty litter and rotting dumpster food.The night is cold, and the air in the run-down house even colder. Rachel takes another step down the hall. She ... [+]
Originally published in Creative Nonfiction magazine's Sunday Short Reads series
I was still uncivilized. Among the Starbucks Wednesday morning commuters who awaited lattes while wearing ties, pencil skirts, and blowouts, I stood out. Air-dried hair frizzed from my head, baggy hiking pants hung off my skeletal frame, and instead of a purse I clutched a nylon stuff sack.I hadn't gone back to work yet after my 675-mile backpacking trip on the Appalachian Trail. In fact I didn't have a work since the whole point of my journey, cut short by a broken bone, had been to find my life's purpose. Reclaim the "squandered gifts" I had pretended to forget in favor of capitalism's charm