“You’re right,” Michael said. “It does. Okay, so what are we going to do now? We are quite literally on the streets.”

“That doesn’t always equate to something horrible,” Adam replied. “I spent a long time on the streets and some of those days were actually pretty good. I think we can manage the same thing here.”

“I agree with him,” I said. “We are starting over completely fresh, which is what we wanted. I’m sure that we can find some cash-paying odd jobs to be able to get a place to stay.”

We used the money that was in the backpack to rent a room for a few nights while we looked for work and then looked for an apartment that we could hopefully afford to get soon. Adam was a genius at surviving on the street. He picked up a few jobs painting murals in the city, and Michael picked up a few students to tutor in English by hanging out on the local college campus and flaunting fluid English to native French speakers that had also immigrated from Europe. I still hadn’t found anything, until one evening when a woman happened to wander into our little encampment that we had set up inside of the abandoned train station. It had been such a nice place to stay out of sight, and no one ever came by. It was also aesthetically pleasing and safe from the elements. Now that springtime was almost here, the weather was getting slightly warmer and there was a whole patch of fragrant wildflowers just outside the entrance. The guys had made enough money to keep us fed and even to transform the little space into a makeshift living space. Adam had painted a beautiful mural on the large wall, thanks to the donation of the paints that someone had given him for the work that he had done for them. And Michael had been able to scrounge around the college campus dorms for some beanbag chairs and floor cushions that some students were getting rid of. He was even able to get some pillows and blankets and managed to have one of the guys that he was tutoring wash them for us in the campus laundromat. It strangely almost felt like home. It was our own little space where we were free and unbothered. Things were peaceful and quiet, and it didn’t even really feel like living on the streets.

There hadn’t been any further talk of Michael and I living alone. For now, it was the three of us all together again, just trying to get by, and I liked it. At night we curled up together on the cushions and sometimes we were treated to the sound of the rain falling outside the open doorway.

But when a woman showed up and poked her head into the empty train station just as we were about to cook some food on the open fire, it caught us all by surprise. Both guys jumped up to their feet and I was right behind them.

“Hello?” she asked as she gingerly stepped in through the open archway. “Do you three live here?”

“Why are you here?” Michael asked. “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, putting her palms up in the air to show that she meant no harm. She looked around and saw the food cooking on the fire, and the cushions, and the mural on the wall. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Who are you?” I asked from between the protective stances of the guys.

“I’m Lizbeth. I run the local homeless shelter and I was just making some rounds.”

“Rounds?” Adam asked.

“Rounds in the streets to canvas areas I hadn’t been to yet and look for people who might benefit from some help.”

“What kind of help?” I asked.

“Well, I run the shelter and its outreach program. I can bring you there. It’s warm and there are beds and food.”

“No thanks,” I said a bit too abruptly. “We are just fine here where we are.”

“I understand that,” she smiled. She seemed like she was kind enough. “It’s good to have a place that feels like home, no matter what kind of place it is. But I do need to tell you that eventually the city will see that you are living here and kick you out.”

Michael eyed her accusatorily.

“No, no, not me,” she said quickly. “I won’t report you. You don’t need to worry about that. But I know from experience, and from what some of my other homeless clients have said, that the city will find you here and one day when you come back to this place that you have claimed as your home, it will be gone. They will take your things and will board off the entrance so that you cannot access it. I’m not here to tell you what to do; I just want to help.”

The fact that she referred to the homeless people that she served as “clients” made me think she was probably a halfway decent person. I paused to think for a minute about what she had said.

“She’s right,” I said to Michael. “As much as I love this space that we have made our own, we need to get an apartment and legitimate jobs before we end up getting deported.”

After I said it, I realized that I shouldn’t have. As nice as this woman seemed to be, it was risky for anyone to know that we were inside the country illegally. All it would take is one phone call to the state department and we would be shuffled back to America, which would be the equivalence of a death sentence for us.

She picked up on my wary look and again told us that we didn’t have anything to worry about from her.

“You’re Americans?” she asked.

Michael hesitated before answering her with a “yes”.

She thought, and then her face brightened as if she had just come up with a great idea.

“I have a proposition for you,” she said enthusiastically.

I knew that none of us were really in the mood for any more propositions—ever. That didn’t stop her from continuing though. And I didn’t want to protest and piss her off. The last thing we needed was anyone ratting us out. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you can’t trust anyone. Even when they seem like they won’t double-cross you. I was pretty sure that Michael and Adam had learned that lesson already too.

“I could use some help at my shelter. If you three would want to come and work for me there, I can give you an hourly wage and employment sponsorship.”

“A what?” I asked.

“A work visa that allows you to legally stay here in Canada,” she answered. “The wage isn’t much; I can’t afford to pay anyone more than the standard hourly wage. But the sponsorship will allow you to save your wages and apply for an apartment. Without a work visa, many landlords won’t rent to immigrants.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Michael said. There was a suspicious discernment behind the surface level of appreciation that he was showing. “Why would you want to offer us a sponsorship though? Surely, there are Canadian citizens who need jobs too and would be able to come and work for your shelter.”

“True,” she said thoughtfully. “I’m sure there are. But I am kind of an ‘in the moment’ girl. If I see people that need help, then that is my focus for the moment. Right now, it looks like you three could use some help. Like I said, I can’t offer you much, but I think I can offer you what you need to get by and to get a residence here. I won’t force you. It’s simply an offer of help if you’d like to take it.”

I saw Adam look around the train station at his murals on the wall. His mouth frowned but I didn’t think it had anything to do with leaving the train station. I was betting that it had to do with the thought of being sent back to America and being once again resigned to a life of running, hiding, and looking over our shoulders. He just wanted to make art and live peacefully. I could tell. I wanted to live peacefully too, and I didn’t want to have to leave Canada.

“I think it sounds like a good arrangement,” Michael said as he turned to look at Adam and I and seek our approval before accepting the woman’s offer. “But I’m not going to do anything that the two of you are uncomfortable with.”

“Sounds good to me,” Adam said. “I’d like to have an apartment here and be legal.”

“Me too,” I said. “I’m comfortable with whatever is going to allow us to stay here in Canada without the fear of being sent back.”

“Looks like it’s settled then,” Michael said, turning back to face the woman. “We accept.”

As we walked back with the woman toward the shelter, carrying the few belongings that we wanted to keep, I couldn’t help but think about how much she reminded me of my mother. Not just because of her work at the shelter, or her obvious inclination to helping people, but there was also just something about the way that she spoke with such patience and kindness, and the way that she carried herself with such purpose, that reminded me of my own mom. Maybe that was why I was able to trust her even a little bit after having been screwed over by so many people in the past.

When we arrived at the shelter that she owned, it was simple and quaint, but also had a minimalist charm about it. There was just the right amount of everything in each room, no clutter, and the space was used effectively enough to make it not seem at all crowded even though I could see at least a dozen other people here.

“I’ll look to make sure I have two rooms for you,” she said as she started to walk toward one of the hallways. “You two guys won’t mind sharing a room, will you?”

“Actually,” I said. “Just one room please. We’ll all share.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Positive.”

“Okay,” she smiled at me. “Whatever makes you feel most comfortable while you’re here.”

She led us to a bedroom at the end of the hall and we followed her inside.

“There’s a closet for your things, and extra blankets are on the top shelf inside. There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall, and the kitchen and common area are in the other direction from where we came in. If you need toiletries, medicines, and changes of clothes, you’ll find them in the armoire just across the hall. Food and drinks are in the kitchen, so help yourself.”

“What jobs do you want us to do here?” Adam asked.

“What can you do?”

“Well, I can paint. I was doing mural paintings for money on the streets,” Adam answered. “I’m not sure if you really have a need for that, but I can do regular painting too, if you need the walls or exterior painted.”