A crisp forty-degree breeze cut through the afternoon air as the four girls made their way home from school, their heavy winter jackets now tied around their waists like makeshift skirts. The morning had been a bitter twenty-five degrees when they'd left home—too cold for their bicycles, which now sat abandoned in garages while they faced the long walk both ways. The weather forecast had threatened freezing rain or snow, making walking the safer, if not warmer, option.

"I'm putting my jacket back on," Eileen announced, already reaching for the sleeves. "It's still freezing out here."

"I'm fine," Ella responded, her breath visible in small puffs. "The walking keeps me warm."

Helana suddenly stopped mid-stride, her attention caught by something ahead. "Check it out!" she exclaimed, pointing toward a hunched figure struggling with several bulging bags. "That old man needs help. We should offer to carry some of that heavy stuff."

Roxana squinted at the distant figure, her expression skeptical. "He looks homeless. Could be dangerous. Maybe we should just keep walking."

"You're always too eager to help, Helana," Eileen said, though her tone was more concerned than critical. "He probably just wants to be left alone."

Ella paused, studying the man with genuine curiosity. "Actually, maybe we should help. It's also an opportunity to learn something. I didn't know we had homeless people in our town. Makes me wonder where he sleeps, how he survives out here."

Helana's eyes took on that distant look her friends had come to recognize. "I have a feeling this is more than it seems."

"Oh man, here we go," Eileen muttered, pulling out her phone. "Helana gets a psychic hit and we're off on some adventure. I'm texting Mom to tell her we'll be late and not to worry." She paused, typing. "Of course, she's going to worry anyway."

Roxana surprised them all by nodding slowly. "Let's just go with it. It's our Christian duty anyway—to be of service to all God's children."

"What happened to 'let's just keep walking,' Roxana?" Eileen asked, raising an eyebrow.

Unexpected Encounter

"I don't have any, so go away!" the old man barked as the girls approached, not even looking up from his heavy bags.

"Any what?" Ella asked gently. "We just wanted to help you carry those bags. They look heavy."

"Bullshit!" The man's weathered face twisted with suspicion. "You kids are all the same. So what is it this time? White? Black? Blues? Percs? Just because I'm an old homeless guy, you think I'm a drug dealer? Think batting your pretty eyelashes will make me share my stash? Get lost!"

Roxana stepped forward, her voice calm and sincere. "We're sorry to bother you, sir. We really did just want to help—you know, do the right thing. We're not looking for drugs. Honestly, I don't even know what half those things you mentioned are. We'll leave you be. Have a good day."

The old man's hostile expression softened slightly as he studied each girl's face, searching for signs of deception. Something in their genuine confusion seemed to convince him. "Wait," he called as they began to turn away. "Don't go just yet. If you're really as innocent as you seem, then you need an education before you get yourselves hurt—or worse. Walk with me a bit, and I'll teach you some things about the real world."

"What kind of things?" Ella asked, her curiosity overriding any caution.

The old man hefted his bags and began walking toward a tree line in the distance. "You need to learn about the throwaway people—the folks I live with down in the woods. It's like stepping into another dimension, an alternate reality. It's a place where young girls like you..." He paused, his voice taking on a protective edge. "Well, let's just say it's a place that swallows people whole and spits out nothing but empty shells pushing shopping carts and begging for their next meal."

"Throwaway people?" Helana echoed, the phrase catching her attention.

"Yes. People get discarded for all kinds of reasons. Parents throw out teenagers for being gay. People with mental health issues get expelled from programs, evicted from housing, or released from jail with nowhere to go and no job prospects. Folks with addiction problems get rejected by family and pushed to the margins of society—into the streets, into the woods, into the desert. Anyone deemed undesirable or untouchable gets cast out where they can't be seen, even here in your pristine middle-class town."

Ella frowned thoughtfully. "But aren't most homeless people drug addicts or criminals? Isn't that why they can't integrate into normal society?"

Basic Research

The old man chuckled grimly. "Most of them are addicts, sure—everyone except me in this particular forest. There are a few fugitives, but usually just people who missed a court date for some minor charge. Here's what you need to understand: don't confuse cause and effect. Drug addiction isn't the root cause—it's a symptom. Most people I know out here are mentally ill, and the addiction and antisocial behavior that gets them in trouble are symptoms of that illness."

He paused, shifting the weight of his bags. "Lots of folks suffer from schizophrenia, but even more have PTSD. You see it in war veterans, but increasingly in young people too. Unresolved childhood trauma is epidemic among homeless kids. Some neighborhoods—the ones your parents warn you to avoid—are as psychologically damaging as war zones. These people aren't choosing this life; they're surviving it."

They'd reached a narrow paved path leading into the woods. The old man stopped. "This is where I head in. You girls should go home now. It's not safe for young women where I'm going."

"Don't worry about us," Ella said with quiet confidence. "We're protected in ways you couldn't imagine. I want to see how you live, understand this world better."

The man's eyes narrowed. "Protected? What, you got federal agents watching over you?"

"We can't really discuss that," Eileen said with a nervous smile.

"I can see them, you know. They're not very subtle." He gestured vaguely toward the treeline. "So what is this—a setup? A raid? You working for the feds?"

"Like we said, we can't discuss it," Ella explained carefully. "We're part of a special Navy-sponsored program. This is just research. Nobody's getting arrested."

"Research, huh?" The old man studied them with new interest.

Eileen stepped forward, her journalist instincts kicking in. "Okay, time to turn the tables. The way you speak, your understanding of homelessness—something doesn't add up. You're not just another guy with schizophrenia or PTSD, are you? Who are you really?"

The man laughed, a genuine sound this time. "Busted by a teenager. I'm not an agent—I'm an author. I've written books about indigenous populations on several continents. To really understand them, I have to become one of them, immerse myself completely in their culture, sometimes for years. I'm doing the same thing here. To understand homelessness, I became homeless. It's the only way to get the real story, not some academic's surface-level observations."

"So you're a scholar? A sociologist or anthropologist?" Roxana asked.

"Just a writer. I don't have anything against those academic disciplines, but all that formal training can create tunnel vision. You end up seeing everything through one theoretical lens. I want the raw experience, the unfiltered data, so I can do my own analysis."

"How do you get published without academic credentials?" Eileen asked, her own writing ambitions evident in the question.

"Smart question for someone so young. Are you a writer too?"

"I want to be. My teachers say you need credentials to be taken seriously."

"Not true anymore. Self-publishing has changed everything—though then you have to handle your own marketing. I started by essentially giving away articles to magazines, which got me noticed. Now I have a following and a mailing list. The first book is always the hardest; if you're not already networked, getting visibility is nearly impossible."

Into The Woods

The girls followed their new companion down the narrow path, leaving pavement behind as they ventured deeper into the forest. The temperature seemed to drop further under the canopy, and the late afternoon light grew dim and dappled. Just when the girls were beginning to feel apprehensive about how far they'd traveled, a cluster of tents and makeshift structures materialized in a clearing ahead.

"Oh my God," Roxana breathed. "It's like a whole village out here. By the way, what's your name?"

"Bernard. And you are?"

"I'm Roxana. This is Ella and her twin Helana, and our resident firecracker here is Eileen."

"Firecracker?" Eileen protested. "At least I have some personality, unlike certain beanpoles I could mention."

"Enough, girls," Ella said firmly. "We're here to learn, not bicker."

Bernard smiled at their dynamic. "You're all delightful. Now, let me explain what you're seeing. That wooden structure over there belongs to the first resident—he calls himself Abaddon, though everyone just says Abe. This whole camp is known as Abe-Camp. He's sort of the unofficial leader, keeps the peace. You could call him mayor, though 'tribal chief' might be more accurate. There aren't many rules here, but the ones that exist are enforced absolutely."

"Abaddon?" Roxana's voice sharpened with recognition. "That's biblical—the angel of the bottomless pit. Is that his real name?"

"Probably chosen. A lot of homeless people adopt dark names—Diablo, Lucifer, that sort of thing. I think they find power in them."

Ella's attention was caught by a woman sitting alone outside a battered tent. "Is that the only woman here?"

"Almost entirely men, yes. That's Mabel—she's our sole female resident at the moment."

"Can I talk to her?"

"She's not very social, but we can try." Bernard called out, "Hey, Mabel! Come meet some visitors."

A thin woman with prematurely aged features approached, her eyes darting between the girls with unsettling intensity. "Good Lord, Bernie, what are you doing bringing kids out here? They joining us? Can I have the blonde one? She looks just like my daughter."

"No, Mabel, they're not for sale," Bernard said quickly. "They're just visiting for a school project."

"Oh, here to study the crazy forest people?" Mabel's laugh was harsh. "Well, screw you all. I've got better things to do."

"Wait," Ella said gently. "I'm Ella. I'm sorry if we've offended you. We're not here to judge. I'd genuinely like to hear your story—understand how a woman ends up in a place like this. Wouldn't a women's shelter be safer?"

"Can't smoke in shelters. Uptight bitches running those places don't let you do anything. Followed my ex here when he got out of prison. Didn't work out—he died, I stayed." Mabel shrugged as if discussing the weather.

"What do you smoke?" Eileen asked with characteristic directness.

"Whatever I can get. Crack, heroin, meth, blues when I'm lucky. Usually have to trade favors for the good stuff." Mabel's eyes grew distant. "I was a model once, you know. Did a photo shoot in New York City. Anyway, nice meeting you little girls, but I've got business to attend to."

After Mabel wandered off, Eileen looked around at the litter surrounding the tents. "What's with all the trash? And where do people use the bathroom?"

Bernard laughed dryly. "See any dumpsters out here? No services, no infrastructure. Everything needed—food, water, shelter—has to be carried in. As for bathrooms, you dig a hole and hope you have toilet paper."

"Couldn't they at least collect the trash and carry it out?" Ella asked.

"Remember what I said about everyone having serious anxiety? Anxiety and depression are two sides of the same coin. Living surrounded by filth is a symptom of severe depression. They could clean up, but they don't. It creates legal problems too—the county wants to clear them out for health violations, but since this is public land and they're part of the public, they have a right to be here. The trash gives the health department justification for raids, though. Few years ago, they sent crews to haul everything away—tents, structures, personal belongings, the works."

"Can't the authorities arrest them for drug use?" Eileen pressed.

"That's one of Abe's enforced rules. No obvious buying, selling, or public intoxication. Drug use happens, but it has to be discrete. What people do privately in their tents is their business, but anything that draws law enforcement attention gets you beaten down—hard."

Helana, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke. "Bernard, you've studied indigenous cultures. This community must have its own economic system to survive. How would you compare it to the aboriginal tribes you've researched?"

Bernard's face lit up. "Brilliant question! That's exactly what I'm studying. Aboriginal cultures typically have two economic models: the traditional system based on their environment—hunting, gathering, agriculture—that's sustained them for millennia. But when modern culture encroaches, either through environmental destruction or forced assimilation, they develop a parasitic relationship with the dominant system."

"How is this camp parasitic?" Eileen asked.

"A parasite feeds off another organism without providing benefit in return. This community survives entirely by extracting resources from the surrounding modern culture. See that gray tent? That's Booster Sam—he shoplifts merchandise and sells it at half price for cash or drugs. Mabel uses her sister's address to collect disability payments, food stamps, and food bank supplies, then trades most of it for drugs or cash. The red tent houses Mike the 'appropriator'—need a bike wheel? He'll find one, no questions asked. The whole economy runs on theft, government assistance, and barter, with drugs and cigarettes as primary currency."

"Why doesn't Mabel live with her sister?" Roxana asked.

"Mabel's schizophrenia makes relationships difficult. Her sister has children and doesn't want them exposed to Mabel's addiction and prostitution."

Helana fixed Bernard with an intense stare. "You're worried about societal collapse, aren't you? An extinction-level event. Your interest in aboriginal cultures isn't purely academic—you're looking for survival skills for when modern civilization fails."

Bernard stared at her in amazement. "Remarkable. You read people like books. Yes, though at seventy, I'm more concerned about preserving knowledge for younger people—people like you."

"If you haven't figured it out," Roxana said, "Helana is psychic. She sensed we needed to follow you. We're part of a Navy project studying cultural continuity. Some military leaders share your concerns about coming catastrophe."

"We may need to recruit you and your research," Ella added with a smile.

"When do you foresee these events occurring?" Bernard asked Helana.

"Predictions are unreliable, but my sense is around 2053."

"I'll be over a hundred then—assuming I live that long."

"You'll be around as long as we need you," Ella said firmly. "That's an order."

Suddenly, Ella's phone buzzed. Her expression shifted to concern as she read. "Damn. Text from our handler. Security team's been ordered to extract us—it's getting dark. Thank you for everything, Bernard. We'll be back soon to continue this."