By the time Ollie returned to his bench, the man had picked up the change and disappeared. Exhausted, Ollie curled into a ball and closed his eyes.

Minutes later, a concussive blow to the head jolted Ollie from his sleep. In a daze, he fell from the bench. Cold pavement pressed against his cheek. His head throbbed. Touching his scalp, his fingers turned wet. With blurred vision, he watched a dark figure rummage through his suitcase. He tried to stand but lost his balance and fell. As his vertigo subsided, he struggled to sit up and noticed that his attacker had fled. The contents of his suitcase were strewn like confetti over the grass. And beside him were the shards of a broken milk bottle.

CHAPTER 5 - PORTLAND, MAINE

CHAPTER 5

PORTLAND, MAINE

Ollie rubbed his aching head, feeling as if the man who had robbed him had also performed a lobotomy using a butter knife. He gathered his strength, stood on wobbly knees, and collected the remnants of his personal items that were spread across the grass. Ollie found most of his possessions, including his flight book and the picture of his parents. The only thing missing was his money: the proceeds from selling the car and even the couple of dollars he had stashed in his wallet. He scanned the park for the man who had robbed him, but he was nowhere to be found.

Ollie found a public restroom near Longfellow Square, and although the door was locked, he located a window that was unlatched. He crawled inside and fell to the floor, the tile cold against his hands. Pulling a string hanging from a light fixture in the ceiling, he looked in the mirror and wished he had left the light off. A large gash had split a groove into his forehead, just below the hairline. Dried blood covered the left side of his face and had dripped down his neck like hardened wax, dyeing the collar of his white shirt crimson. He turned on the water, washed his face, and scrubbed the stains from his shirt, until only a pink hue remained. He combed his hair with his fingers and thought that he could use some stitches. But he had no time and, more importantly, no money.

At the station, Ollie joined the crowd of people gathering for the train to Boston, most of whom had their heads buried in the morning newspaper. He tried to sell his watch to buy a ticket; with no interested buyers, he resorted to trying to hock his suitcase. But everyone was consumed with the paper, even annoyed when he interrupted their reading to display how well the spring latches still worked on his tattered case.

A whistle blew, and the train crawled to a stop, its wheels screeching over the rails. The engine hissed, the doors slid open, and the crowd entered, one by one, until the landing was empty. Except for Ollie.