Where you headed to? He asked.

I shrugged my shoulders.

Must be going somewhere, he said.

Not really. I might stay here,  I told him.

In Indio? He asked.

Why not? I replied.

This is no place for you. He laughed. Where you from?

Nowhere, I said. Nowhere.

Everyone is from somewhere. He said. Betting the Midwest. Maybe Ohio. Perhaps Iowa? Could be Minnesota. Bob Dylan was from Minnesota.

Yes. He was. I agreed. But I’m not.

You got a buck on you? He asked.

I handed him my last dollar. Quarters were in my pockets.

I’m going to get a candy bar. He said. Maybe a Three Musketeers. I would offer you one, but I’m broke. Thanks for the buck.

Sure, I said. Why not?

Don’t stay in Indio. He said. Go back home.

I nodded.

Smell that? He said. Indio has a certain smell. Flowers from date palms. Smells nice, right?

Yes. Yes, it does.

I can’t smell it anymore. I’ve become immune to the scent. But, there’s always people eating dates. Like candy. Mexicans pick them. He told me. Just get on the bus and leave, he said.

I’ll leave eventually, I said. Where’s the nearest shelter?

You’ll sleep better outside. Among the dates. He laughed. Did I take your last dollar?

No. No, I gave it to you.