When I saw Israel he was leaning against the railing of the eastbound freeway on-ramp from Marceline, his backpack resting on the ground next to him. He looked like he was in his early to mid thirties; he was short with sandy red hair and wore thick-lensed glasses in round frames. He held a cardboard sign that read:

St. Louis

I nodded at him. “Hey.”

“How are you?” he asked cheerfully.

“Fine,” I replied. “How are you?”

“Perfect. Beautiful day to be outside.”

“Good walking weather,” I said.

“Where you headed?” he asked.

“Key West.”

“Nice place, Key West,” he said, nodding a little. He was the first person I’d told who hadn’t reacted with surprise.

“How about you?” I asked.

“Arkansas. I’ve got a job waiting for me down there.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a roofer.”

“That’s a long way to go for one house.”

He shrugged. “It’s what I do—I’ve been on the road since I was seventeen.”

“You’ve been walking since you were seventeen?”

“No, I don’t walk. I’m a tramp.”

“Tramps don’t walk?”

“Not if we can help it. But it’s a nice day. I’d be happy to walk a ways with you, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” I said.

He fastened his sign to his pack, then pulled it over his shoulders and walked up to me. The shoulder was wide enough that we could safely walk abreast.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Alan. Yours?”

“Israel. Israel Campbell.”

“And you’re a tramp.”

“Yes, sir. To regular folk, most homeless people look the same, but we’re not.” He held his hand out in front of him, extending his index finger. “First, you’ve got your mountain men—they’re easy to spot. They look like they just crawled out of a cave or something. They usually have a lot of facial hair and they only come out in public when they absolutely need something, then go back as soon as they can.”

He extended a second finger. “Then you have your crazies. I don’t mean serial killer crazy, but just a bit off, you know? Arguing with themselves. You can tell the elevator doesn’t quite reach the top floor.”

I nodded. “I’ve seen these people,” I said.

He extended a third finger. “Then you got your hobos.”

“Hobos and tramps aren’t the same thing?”

“No. Hobos give us tramps a bad name.”

“How’s that?”

“Hobos do a lot of panhandling—you’ll see them on off-ramps with cardboard signs begging for money. Tramps don’t beg unless we have to. Tramps work. It’s a point of pride with us. We just don’t have a home or vehicle, so we hitchhike.