Читать книгу Searching for Sam - Sophie Bienvenu - Страница 14

I DON’T HAVE TIME TO THINK ANYMORE. IT’S A damn good thing.

We don’t sleep on the street every night. There are squats, there are apartments that belong to someone who knows someone. There’s a laundromat at the corner of rue Dandurand and Troisième Avenue, a twenty-four-hour place, there’s the bracing to the left of Église Saint-Esprit … but, yeah, I guess you could call that “on the street,” even if technically there’s a roof over it. It’s definitely easier to sleep at someone’s, but that never lasts. Anyway, me and Sam don’t really like getting too comfortable anywhere. At least I don’t. I think she misses having a couch and food at regular times.

Sometimes, on good days, I feel like I’m an explorer. You got no choice but to see it that way when you need a plan just to take a dump. But there aren’t a lot of good days. Most of the time, I can’t lie to myself. I know that having to survive outside is what’s letting me survive inside.

Night starts to fall, and the smokers start talking loud around Quai No. 4. This is the time when I wish I still drank, so I could laugh at nothing, feel like I’m floating and nothing matters. This is when we look for somewhere to sleep. I might have a plan. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll go crash behind a bush in parc du Pélican. I start getting my shit together, but Sam is staring off into space.

“You think about her sometimes?”

What does a dog think about? Are they sad about the past? Are they thinking about where they went wrong? Do they have regrets?

But when you think about it, a dog always finds its way home.