After I settle up with the park ranger for last night, I’m left with a hundred and fifty-eight dollars. If I know anything about money, it’s that it runs out fast. To save gas, I walk to town from the campground. It takes a long time on sore feet, but I don’t have anything else to do and I can’t exactly go blowing money on sightseeing.

The houses on the way are old. Some of them have porches that sag, peeling paint, loose shingles, bedsheets or flags for curtains. But some are freshly painted with fancy wood trim that looks like bicycle spokes.

There’s a dog on the porch of a house with a Grateful Dead flag in the front window. He isn’t leashed. He looks like a pit bull and I start walking faster. I think about crossing the street, but I don’t want him to chase me. I walk an even pace, pretending I’m calm. He barely raises his head to watch me.

The center of town is called Ithaca Commons and it’s blocked off so it’s just for people, not cars. The stores are painted bright colors like a village out of a movie. Like it might not be real.

I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Something cheap to eat, maybe a place to get warm for a while so I can plan my next move. There’s a brick building that has DAIRY painted on the outside even though it’s a bakery. I buy a donut and a cup of coffee from a lady with long white braids and take a seat at a wobbly table by the window.

The people who walk by just look different. They’re wearing a lot of clothes. Layers and layers. Thick hand-knit hats with flaps that cover their ears, or they have hair like they just got out of bed. Corduroy pants cut up the seam and turned into bellbottoms with bright patchwork pieces. There’s a man in a long skirt walking around like he’s nothing out of the ordinary. I’ve never seen anything like it. Freaking dirty hippies, I think, smiling as I try to picture Gary walking around The Commons wearing a flowing skirt and his Harley jacket.

I eat my donut slow, breaking off teeny tiny pieces, chewing them down to mush before I swallow. After I drink half my coffee, I go back to the cream and sugar table and load the cup with cream so it’ll last longer. I eat every last crumb of donut and wait for the final drop of coffee to roll down the seam of the paper cup into my mouth.

“Want a warm up to go?” the lady with the braids asks as I stand up and collect myself. “On the house.” She holds the coffeepot above the counter.