I was almost thirteen, and I’d run away from a school back East and was heading out West to become a bullfighter. I’d sold most of my clothes and jewellery and hoarded a Christmas windfall from Uncle Roger to get together enough money to buy a coach-ticket to Albuquerque. I planned on hitching the rest of the way to Mexico. But somehow I’d forgotten entirely about food. By the time I hit Chicago my stomach was flat against my spine and gasping for breath. I saw the sign saying Traveller’s Aid Society and decided I was in luck. I’d just go up to it and ask for a loan. The woman at the desk – actually she probably wasn’t more than my age now, though she seemed older to my young eyes and wore her hair in a severe style that gave her a Librarian Look – disillusioned me about that immediately. She said they didn’t dole out money like that, they were really only a reference organization and if I’d answer a few questions she’d be able to tell me which charity I might be eligible for. She was very kind. I liked her at once. I started answering her questions and the next thing I knew I’d blurted out the whole story. She listened attentively. She listened without making any ‘listening’ faces, but I felt she was on my side. It was the first time I’d felt that about any grown-up.