Suitcases, backpacks, hiking boots, and bodies line the glass and concrete terminal. Metal benches produced in some no name factory in an arbitrary city by sad little people who once believed in upward mobility are held in place by other, equally sad men and women who still cling to the hope of making it big. A life-sized Barbie on the tv overhead decries this political atrocity and that and brings news of yet another murder in our precious hidden gem of a fly over city.

For the first time in 56 days, I'm home in St. Louis. For all of 18 hours before I had to clamber on to another soul shattering bus filled with the destitute. I thought the Statue promised more to those huddled masses. The smell of lung cancer hangs in the air and marine corps washouts stand beside BLM activists in an uneasy atmosphere of understanding that no one, for the moment, cares about us. We are all nothing but statistics on a spreadsheet that a fat cat in New York hopes will remain black.

But I still see love. Ambition. Faith. Hope. The frail innocence of a little white boy and a little black girl chasing each other through the narrow hallway, swerving between legs and toppling suitcases. A man well into his forties flirts with a girl barely in her twenties. Two lifelong friends catch up, propped against a Pepsi marching. Immediately across from them, a teen squeals with her friend about the mountainous adventure they are embarking on. Denver. Seattle. Boston. Miami. San Antonio. Quebec. We all met in this river side city and fell in love with the momentous wonder of travel.

Granted, each is here for a different reason. A quick survey taken via eaves dropping reveals the motives of each traveler. A deceased grandmother is going into the ground. A cousin is returning from the Middle East. A father made parole. A daughter flees a damaged home.

Each story is thought provoking and belongs in the plot of one melodramatic soap opera or another. But the story of Deidra takes the cake.

A frail, petite girl of Indian descent, Deidre reminds me of a runaway teen who is selling herself on the street to scrape by. Ironically, this is fairly close to the truth. Her teeth, yellowed by cigarettes, are otherwise flawless. Her eyes, sunken and empty, belong to an 80-year-old, not a barely legal teen.

I came across Deidre on accident. My mother and youngest brother had dropped me off at the St Louis Amtrak station about an hour earlier and I, in pain from trying to hold my bladder for so long, rushed to the restroom to relieve myself. On my way out, I almost flattened the 5'1" girl as she turned the corner into the men's room. We both panicked (though for different reasons) and I apologized profusely to a girl that, in another life, may have desirable.

She cursed her luck and shied away, asking if she had tried entering the men's room by mistake. I affirmed her embarrassment and assured her worse could happen. After that, we danced oddly around one another, trying to make it to the bus in time. Though in the grand tradition of Greyhound, said bus was delayed a full hour. So I did what I do best: I complained to Allie. About everything. If it had been in person, she would have slapped me to get me to stop whining. In fact, I'm surprised she hasn't muted or blocked my number before. But such is our friendship.

Once the bus finally rolled up, I was restless. Given the track record of Greyhound over my last few trips, I was terrified we might not make it to Columbus in time for my connection to Parkersburg. This was amplified by the bickering and complaining by other passengers which told of countless grievances ranging from lost luggage to canceled routes and even a steward denying a child access to the same bus as his parents. Greyhound never ceases to amaze.

Thankfully, I found my way on to the bus with little hassle. The driver, a burly gentleman in his late thirties, lacked any care for human decency when interacting with riders. His coach, a relic of the 1980's, attempted to cater to customers through spotty Wi-Fi and a dysfunctional A/C unit. But despite this, fate shined upon me and delivered a charming seat partner: Deidre.

She smiled and asked the obvious of no one in particular. What are the odds? In a crazy world like this, better than you'd think. I said so and that drew a stifled giggle and another smile poorly hidden by a travel pillow. After I moved my bag from the seat, she plopped down beside me and started an impromptu conversation which drew me away from my phone and into my humanity.

We started with hometowns. I spun my usual tale of travel and wanderlust born of being an Air Force brat, telling her I often felt lost because of my inability to sit in one place. She, on the other hand, had lived her entire life on the East side of Alton in a two bedroom apartment while her mother searched high and low for a man who would stay. Lost in a different sense. Only now she was running from it in search of a life elsewhere. Just where, she did not yet know. I advanced the plot, begging to know why. As though sizing me up, she leaned back to judge my appearance and relatively superficial trustworthiness. Apparently, I passed the test, because she told me perhaps the saddest life story I've encountered thus far.

Deidre is a runaway. At 16, she met a man who, at the time, seemed to love her in a way no one ever had or ever could. His affections were sincere, spontaneous, and wholesome, everything the teenage boys at her school could never hope to be. In a way, the 23-year-old whom she fell for was simply giving her the attention she felt entitled to. But her youth proved to be her downfall. Only six months into the pseudo relationship they had, the Sean convinced Deidre to leave her home for the thrills of a West Coast lifestyle. He promised a fulfilling life of adventure, wealth, and happiness, three things unknown to a girl who grew up in a rundown apartment on the outskirts of a dying city. She bought it and promised herself to a man she barely knew. She saw her fairy tale ending and jumped at the opportunity.

The fairy tale ending never came. As the Gateway Arch disappeared behind them and the plains of Kansas unfurled before their sedan, Deidre noticed a change in Sean's demeanor. He grew more possessive the further west they traveled and, with each border, her presumed love lost his warmth. About the time they crossed into Nevada, It dawned on Deidre that everything Sean promised her was nothing more than a sham; she was sitting beside a sex trafficker.

Deidre shifted uncomfortably at this point, obviously second guessing her decision to share this story. I didn't push her further, though I was curious to know where she was going now given Alton lay just across the river.

"I don't know the answer to that one. Home isn't really home, anymore."

She drifted off after that, excusing herself to the restroom only to return a few minutes later with her headphones in, obviously unwilling to continue the conversation. I didn't blame her and shifted in my seat to stare at the window.

As the bus rolls through the fields of south-central Illinois, I'm reminded of just how small I am. The landscape, that of dimming trees peppered with billboards advertising the next fast food restaurant, is vast and unbecoming. As though to drive the point home, a thunderstorm some thirty miles away is setting off fireworks and brings back memories of long forgotten gods and the people who once worshiped at their temples. Alas, I am too far away to hear the thunder. Fortunately, I only have to endure this for a few more miles.