So this was it. We were homeless now, crouched low in the overgrowth behind a university gym. To us, home. Smoking cigarettes, our hands placed over our sleeping bags and blowing twisted smoke rings at the branch canopy above us.
"This is the taste of freedom," Levi was saying. "The best cigarettes are the ones under a night sky."
"Isn't this kind of patronizing, condescending, you know?" I puffed, cringing, paranoid of every sound. "Like, we're homeless, but we're only tourists. We can escape this whole thing tomorrow if we wanted."
"What do you mean?"
"We chose this. We had a bed for the night and we chose this. Urban camping. But is it belittling to those who can't choose it?"
"Even if this experience is fabricated, it still means something," Levi said.
