I walk. It's the only thing I can do when everything goes wrong, in the worst possible manner. I walk on and on, pass bus stops, debate on taking a bus somewhere, anywhere before I remember I left without a wallet. No wallet, no means to take a bus. But also, no wallet, no identification. Not a smart thing to do, I admit. If a bus hit me, no one would know who I was. Sometimes I think about that, about being hit by a car or some other moving vehicle. I don't necessarily want to die, but I do deeply want some rest. Just someplace quiet, somewhere my father can't bother me. He's not a bad guy at heart; it's just his drinking. When my mom died, he couldn't control it anymore, I guess he didn't see any reason to. I remind him of her, and he hates the pain that causes him.

I walk. Thoughts keep coming up in my head and won't go away. What if he commits suicide? He's depressed enough for that. I'll be on my own, with no family worth mentioning. What'll it be then, I wonder? An orphanage? Aren't I too old for that? Maybe foster parents. But I'd rather get my own place. I may only be sixteen, but I'm way more mature than my friends are. Taking care of your father does that to you. My walk slows down to a stroll. In a couple of seconds, I'll be passing a group of boys, plainly up to no good. I resist the temptation of running past them, I know that'll get their attention, that they'll come after me like bloodhounds following a track. So I calmly walk pass them, not ignoring them, not acknowledging them either. It's a fine line; one I've learned to walk in my many midnight strolls.

I walk. It calms me, soothes me. It lets me work out my thoughts, lets me deal with this whole situation. I often fall asleep in class, because of these walks, but I wouldn't want to miss them. I told my teacher that once, when he caught me napping. He didn't understand. So walk in the afternoon, he said. He didn't see that I could only seek the peace inside me when the outside world is calm. Have you ever been on the streets, just before midnight on an ordinary Tuesday night? You should try it some times; there's no one around. Just the odd gang of boys and a lost puppy, who wags his tail when he sees me. We've become real friends, in the months I've been doing this. I feed him when I see him, with old bread and leftovers from our fridge. My dad doesn't notice anyway. He licks my hand and lets me pet him.

I walk. The homeless guy is sitting in the same spot where I always see him. I don't know his name, he doesn't know mine, but I always have a bit of spare change for him. I drop it in his lap and he lifts his hat to me. "Thanks, missy," he says, like he says every night. The routine of each walk keeps me going through the day. No matter what happens at home, I know I'll be able to take my walk, see my dog and this guy.

I walk beyond the gas station, where a lone attendant stands behind his glass partition. He waves, and I know he's been looking out for me. I go in, and buy a cup of coffee, as I do every night. His name's Lonny, I can tell that from his tag. He doesn't pry, doesn't ask what I'm doing out on the streets this late, just waves my money away and tells me it's on the house. I insist, and he refuses. A game we play every night. And like always, it ends with me putting my change back in my pockets and going back outside. My hands have grown cold and I warm them with the coffee. Pretty soon the cup is empty and I look for a trash can. I see one, but it's overflowing with trash, so I hold on to my cup for a while longer. There's no need for more litter in these streets. I walk. How long has it been? I have no idea; I never carry a watch while I walk. The whole point of this ritual is for me to relax. After my dad's drunk himself into a stupor, I take off my watch, wrap a scarf around my throat and grab my coat and mittens. My coat used to belong to my mom, and I can see that hurts my dad even more, every time he sees me in it, but I need the comfort it gives me. It reminds me of happier times, when I didn't have the need to walk. But that was years ago, I remind myself, the present is what matters. Surviving long enough to get my own place and start over. Reinvent myself. Except, of course, I remind myself that you can't run away from your past. The pain of my mother's death is still with me, and I suspect it always will be.

I walk. Another wino sits on a bench, and offers me a drink as I walk by. I shake my head with a smile. He smiles back. He's a new guy, his clothes look new and too good for the streets. Who knows what happened to him, why he lives on the street? These walks do so much for me; I think about my day, let go of my anger, and see there are others who are much less fortunate than I am. I may have no mother left, and a drunk for a father, but at least I have a future. I've seen all the classic and not so classic mistakes and I'm determined not to make them. I'm planning ahead, saving my money so that one day, I'll get out of here and make something of my life.

As I walk on, I pass the elementary school. I see my old classroom, the monkey bars on the playground and marvel at how small it seems. And like I do every night, I find a hole in the fence and go play on the playground. I sit on the swings, slide down the slide and even build a sandcastle in the sandbox. The jungle gym is the last thing on my list. I go from rung to rung on the monkey bars, slowly, then faster. I go back and forth, back and forth until my arms feel like they're going to fall off. I giggle; it sounds loud in the silence surrounding me. Then I lie down on the grass, just look at the stars. It makes me feel small inside, like I'm just a grain of sand on a very big beach. I like the feeling and keep lying here for a couple more minutes. Then I get up, the street calls to me.

I walk on. The houses are all big here, this is the part of town where all the big-shot lawyers and bankers live. I see camera's at the front doors, see alarm installations blinking and I think: what are they so afraid of? I'm glad I don't live here, I'm glad I'm not so rich I lay awake at night, worrying.

I walk, and I think of my dad in his bed, snoring. My heart softens, and I know that in my heart, I really love the guy. I just have trouble remembering that when he passes out on the couch. It's good I don't have many friends, I think ironically, at least I don't have to be afraid of embarrassing myself. At night, I meet my friends. The dog and the homeless guy are in many ways more real, more human to me than many of the kids I see at school each day.

I walk, and I notice I'm turning back home. I see the supermarket where I work after school each day, stocking the shelves with stuff nobody really needs, but everyone buys. Some times I see the really old ladies shuffle by, and I feel pity for them. I can see that every step hurts them, and I often help a regular customer. I tell them to sit down and give me their shopping list. In a matter of minutes, it's all assembled. It's a simple little thing, but I can see they appreciate it. They smile their thanks at me and shuffle on towards the cash register, where the checkout line is long, and impatient. No place for an old granny who can't see very well, that's for sure. We both know someone behind her will sigh when she takes a while to put away her change, and chats with the bag boy. And yet the old suffer this indignation, they go on, day after day, living their lives until they sleep the sleep of death.

I walk. I don't actually want to go home, but I know it's time. My hands have gone numb inside my mittens and my ears hurt. I feel myself growing tired, my feet hurt in my shoes. Another mile and I'm home. I find I'm no longer angry at my dad, I only feel love for the man who gave me my life, then found his life to hard to bear without alcohol. I can see my house from here; all the lights are out except for a small one in my room, on the second floor. I know the cat will be sleeping on my bed when I get in, will purr when I stroke her and snuggle up to me. I let myself in the front door, hang up my coat and tiptoe up the stairs in the dark to my room. I don't bother with brushing my teeth; I just put on my pajamas and go to bed. Just before I fall asleep, I remember that tomorrow is another day, another walk. At night, on the streets, I'm in my element.

I walk, because it's the only thing I can do.