Thomas never had a good sense of direction.  He never had a sense for many things.  He had a fantastic ability of knowing when he was unwanted, but it came at the expense of other senses, like the sense of confidence that many collect from small childhood accomplishments or tender reassurances from beloved adults.  Thomas was a survivor, he had developed a thin web of anxiety to foretell danger, and strong legs ready to flee at the littlest evidence that thin ice was cracking. Those are not heroic qualities but they helped get him stay above the water, stay above the dread.  Thomas was born in a difficult home. Adults in his life were never reassuring.  Danger was a constant, failure an expectation, and fear a daily meal served to nourish his desire for control.

His desire for control but lack of direction, found him fleeing from his home one afternoon.   When people move from apartments or into new lives, there is a mixture of melancholy and anticipation covering all the things they take and leave behind.  For Thomas, a survivor, there was one rucksack hastily stuffed with t-shirts, jeans and socks, a couple of boxes of cigarettes, a flashlight and some cash.  The few remnants of a life he could hold onto all wrapped up in prayers and hopes. He didn’t leave a note, he didn’t message anyone. The better to disappear undetected, and introduce himself invisible into what he hoped would be a semblance of normalcy.

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After that he just started to walk. Just walking, no hitchhiking.  He'd read too many stories about murderous strangers lurking in cars, on the road waiting for people like Thomas, waiting for the moment to lock doors. He planned to reach a convenience store, shop for a couple of things, a tent, some matches, and travel into the unknown.