I've been homeless for a while now, long enough to know which places are safe and which

ones aren't, and which ones will get you stabbed in your sleep. I move around a lot, keep to

myself and never stay anywhere too long. That's how you survive. The city is full of tent cities, makeshift little

neighborhoods are the forgotten and unlucky. Some are worse than others. You don't stay in the

ones run by the guys with glassy eyes and twitchy fingers. You don't set foot in the ones that stink of chemicals,

urine and death. But every now and then, you hear whispers about a place that's... different.

There's one under the overpass on the outskirts of town. I heard about it a few weeks back.

No fights, no cops, no trouble.

Nobody knows why, but people who stay there don't leave.

They don't come back into the city looking for change.

They just settle into that little tent city. And that's it. Supposedly,

they're all happy there. I wasn't planning on going. I don't like places I can't walk away from.

But that night, I didn't have a choice. The rain came fast, thick and

freezing, soaking me to the bone within minutes. I've been hanging around downtown, near one of the

busier streets, keeping my head down and hoping for scraps when they came out of the bar.

A group of them, loud, drunk, laughing.

Those kinds of people don't take kindly to people like me.

They started with insults.

Hey, get a job, asshole, that kind of thing.

I kept my head down and kept walking.

Don't engage, don't make eye contact.

It's a rule, but when you're the weakest thing on the street, there's always someone

...