I walk. I push my red cart. It is big and bulky. Somebody bought it for me, a total stranger. My belongings—all the belongings I could gather—are inside my cart. The cart has two sides to it, one good, one bad. It is helpful, but it is my jail. I look at people and they look at me. The red cart has invisible bars. They are grim bars. I can’t laugh. I can’t cry. I go on. I keep walking.