The clock struck 2:45, and the piercing sound of the bell echoed throughout the school. The students fled the campus and their cramped classrooms in groups, in pairs, in herds, while Brock walked alone to the southern exit. Outside, the faint, dry air struck his skin and nostrils, and a dark pack of clouds loomed in the distance, crawling closer with every second.

Brock walked just passed the gate, where the bike rack sat innocently and empty. He found himself glance back at the rack as he kept walking. Yesterday he had run over a shard of glass on his way home from school, deflating his front bike tire. His father had given him a lift this morning, but both his parents were working right now. This afternoon, he would have to walk home. Once he arrived, he could fix the bike, as his dad would supposedly pick up a new tire on his way home. Tomorrow, he would have his transportation back; but for this afternoon, he possessed only the mobility of himself.
And so, Brock began his journey.

The narrow, winding road stretched before him as he paced along the sidewalk. He walked with a kind of bouncy stride, an everyday stroll that suggested relaxation and enthusiasm. He squinted ahead and could just barely make out the street sign where he would turn left. He looked around, at the houses, and admired their sturdy, wooden architecture. He took note of their varying colors, shapes, and foundations. Carefully, he looked upwards and could pick out a flock of birds flying away from him, diving down, then swooping up. Then he looked down and noticed the dirty sidewalk, spoiled with the occasional littering of food, cigarettes, empty cans, and other misdeeds.
All of these distinctions stuck out to Brock. Although he only had three miles to walk, he could feel the world slowing down as he paid close attention to the details that surrounded him, perhaps for the first time in his life.
He felt a cool gust begin to brush against him, and he knew that soon it would start raining. He picked up the pace, focused now to get home, when right out of the corner of his eye, a shadow moved. Brock saw it. It had the outline of a small, meticulous man, hunched over, with an incredibly distinguished oval-shape head. He knew he saw it. But it vanished just before he could know for sure.
He thought little of it and continued on. The dead autumn leaves drifted along the street, and the sun’s rays began to gradually dilute as the clouds blanketed the sky, casting a shadow over the town. He jogged along the sidewalk, and within minutes, he reached the next street and made a left onto his home road. Now he had just over two miles to go.

Brock felt a cold presence starting to creep up on him. As the street grew dark with the sky, he felt quite alone. He stopped jogging and began to listen. He could hear the rustle of trees and leaves all around him, and the slight thump of shoes hitting the ground behind him. He turned around. A man was walking toward him. Brock stood firm and awkward, unsure of what to do.

The man stopped right in front of Brock. He had a long, white, scruffy beard, torn clothing, and unkempt, greasy hair. Slowly but surely, he drew and opened his hand up towards Brock. “What do you want?” Brock inquired.

“Spare some change?” The old man begged.

“I don’t have any,” Brock stated with a half-hearted tone of apology.

“I need a place to stay for the storm t’night. You know there’s a storm coming, right?”

He knew.

“Do you have any shelter for an old guy like me? A garage or somethin’ just to get out of the weather?”

Brock felt the light movement of raindrops crawl down his shoulders. He felt the inclination to cautiously inch away from the man while still facing him. “I can’t help you. I’m sorry,” he said, although no true remorse existed in him.

“Just a little change is all I’m askin’. Just a little will do. Any change at all,” the homeless man rambled on aimlessly, as if he begged simply to hear himself talk.

Brock expressed, through his body posture, his incredibly blunt intentions of leaving; but yet he remained still, as if his legs had fused with the earth while he stood there talking to the man. “I…I already told you I don’t have any change. I can’t help you, and I have to leave now.”

At the moment Brock turned away, his legs moved away from the man and towards home, almost robotically. It was beginning to pour now, and all sunlight had vanished. So Brock’s walking became a jog, and the jog became a sprint. The motion coursed through his entire body; his mind ached as his legs did. The old man soon dissipated into a distant memory.

He could see his house up ahead. He ran for it. The wind picked up. His mind raced with him. Tree bark smacked against his face but did not slow him down. Leaves coated his body. Rain swamped his clothes. Mud trailed with his boots. He now ran directly in the street. He did not think about anything except for getting home. Nothing at all.
And then he slipped.

He didn’t think about breaking his fall. His face slapped into the wet concrete, covering it in dirt and grime. A cut ran across his left cheek, and his tongue bled from having bitten it. He slowly got back up, unaware of all of this. He turned to face the house in front of him. He was home.