We boarded the metro and rode all the way to El Cajon, which was the last stop on the line. Watching the people, I realized I could expect the same kind of treatment in California as I had experienced in Salt Lake. The people stared at us, giving us plenty of space, pulling their children away. To them, I was just another stranger on the metro. Yes, I might have been a whole lot stranger than some of the others, but I was nothing they would remember. At the end of the day, they’d go home. They’d go on with their lives. But not me. I was trapped. I was never going home.
It took about two hours to get to the end of the line. It seemed like it took all day. After the all-night bus trip from Salt Lake City, we were all exhausted and mostly rode in silence. But it was obvious that Mitchell was in a good mood. The burden of the prophet was much lighter now that he had put some distance between himself and the law.
I couldn’t help but see the symbolism in riding to the end of the metro line. That was exactly how I felt. I was at the end of the line. So far from home. So alone and isolated. Already I was so homesick that I wanted to cry.
I hadn’t realized how much comfort I had taken from the fact that, even if I was nothing but a prisoner, back in Salt Lake I was within a few miles of my home. I always had the hope that someone might stumble upon our camp and save me, that there were still some people looking for me, that somewhere I might be recognized and rescued. At one point—according to Mitchell, at least—there had been a huge effort to find me. Maybe there was a little bit of that still going on. Maybe I would still get lucky. But I knew that was infinitely less likely now that I was in California. No one knew me here. No one would recognize my face. I might as well have been riding the train to another planet.
After stumbling off the metro at the last station, Mitchell studied a map that showed the bus routes and got us on the right bus out to Lakeside. We bounced along for a while. Only a few passengers were on the bus. All of us were quiet.
Climbing off the bus, I took a look around.
Lakeside, California. My new home.
I didn’t know it yet, but I was about to enter a new phase of my capture. Mitchell had never really cared if I was fed or cold or hungry, but he was about to set a new standard in neglect and abuse.
Lean days were coming. I was about to find out what real hunger was.
*
I stood on the road where the bus had dropped us off and took in my new surroundings as best as I could through my stupid veil.
I had expected to see a beautiful mountain lake surrounded by pine trees and white aspen. That was hardly the case. What I saw was a small man-made pond with a stubby boardwalk wrapped around it. A few ducks. A single black swan. A couple of people out for a walk. And we were hardly in the forest. Across the lake there was an old convenience store. Wrigley’s was its name. Next to Wrigley’s was a liquor store. Great. That was going to make Mitchell really happy.
Later on, I would find that the small town had a tiny library and an old grocery store that was run by a Muslim man who was always very friendly. I don’t think he ever let Mitchell plunder like the guy back in Salt Lake did, but he was always kind to me, and he let us scavenge in the garbage for food. And he sold handmade tortillas. When Mitchell was flush with cash—meaning we had a couple dollars that he hadn’t spent on booze—we’d go into the grocery store and buy some of his warm tortillas. I’d spread a little butter across the top and sprinkle on some sugar. I thought it was one of the best things I had ever tasted.
Lakeside had a couple fast-food places and, a little farther down the street, a much larger grocery store named Vons. And there was a small Protestant church. What a godsend! The people who ran the church were simply angels. Once they gave me some frozen tortillas. I was so hungry, I gulped them down like some kind of flatbread Popsicle. More important, behind their building, they had placed a worn-out plastic crate in which they left old bread they had gathered up from the local grocery stores so that people like me could have something to eat.
That first day, we walked over to the pond, our green sacks over our backs. We placed our belongings on the ground, then Mitchell turned to us and said, “I need to go and find a place for us to live. Hephzibah, you stay and keep an eye on Esther.”
I remember watching him head off. How long is this going to take? I wondered. An hour? Ten hours? A couple of days? How does one show up in a new city, homeless and without any food or money, and find a place to live?