I’ve run away from home and now I'm lost in the jungle. No matter which way I turn, everything looks the same. The smells are foreign, the sounds scary as they bounce around and become amplified, magnified in my head until it feels like a millions voices screaming, telling what to do. If only one of those voices could tell me where to go.
I've run away from home after being forced to “become a man”, whatever that means, and get a job.
They forced me to get a job, but I'm not cut out for retail work, too much human interaction for my liking.
The sun is setting and I don't know where to go. I can't go home. No, scratch that - I refuse to go home.
And yet I am lost.
I shrink into my hood, try in vain to block out the sounds, keeping my eyes firmly on the ground whilst trying to navigate my way out of here.
I bump into an immovable object and before I can scurry away, I feel hands on my shoulders. I try to pull away, but like most things I try in vain.
I force a furtive glance at my captor and feel immense relief.
My hero seems to know my predicament, know my pain. He is one of the concrete jungle’s heroes, one of New York City's finest, a fire fighter who has seen my pain and come to save the day.