He hid leftover food under his pillow, she said.

He refused to eat if anyone was watching him.

He had slept in the hall closet two nights ago.

And every time a car came down the street, he asked whether someone was coming to take him away.

I have landed a failing plane with a dead engine.

I have flown between high-voltage lines in heavy wind.

I have watched a wheat field ignite beneath my wings.

And yet I had to sit down on Beatrice’s porch bench, because my legs would not hold me up, listening to a stranger describe the survival habits of a small, frightened boy — a boy who hid bread because he had learned that food might not come tomorrow, who slept by exits because he had learned that homes could vanish in the night.