The group sat in a circle. Men and women sitting in hospital gowns, some with legs crossed, others with legs wide open, those drooling, and patients staring out the windows, wishing they had a home to go to or a place to lay their heads.

A social worker, psych tech, and nurse were placed among the unfortunate. Those who thought of killing themselves, others living in imaginary worlds where they are gods and goddesses, super heroes, rock stars in their minds. All were silent.

OK, the psych tech said. I’ll start this meeting. Any questions or complaints? The room again was quiet. Alright. Let’s….

When can I leave? One patient asked. When can I get out of here? She drew circles on her leg with her finger.

Have you spoken with the doctor about this? The social worker asked.

Everyday.

And what does Dr. Eamons say?

He don’t say nothing. He just tells me to take my meds. I want to go home.

Where is home? The psych tech asked.

On top of a mountain. Looking down. She said. Meg started to laugh.

Meg. We don’t laugh at others in here. Do you understand? Meg nodded her head.

Where’s your home, Meg?

I don’t have one. I sleep in parks and under bridges. In john’s cars. Old houses that have been condemned. I sleep all over.

I see, the social worker said. So. What’s your plan when you get out of here?

I don’t know. I never know.

We’ll discuss it. You have options. Meg nodded. You know you have options? Right?

I suppose.

How long have you been on the streets?

Too long. A while.

Are you from New York?

No. I’m from  nowhere. I can’t remember anymore. I just know I’m not from here. Nobody is really, she said. We all come here in search of something, and then things get in the way. They always have. 

What did you come here for?

I forgot.