Sarkosa is dusty and hot this time of year. When it’s not dusty and hot, it’s dusty and uncomfortably warm.

As Namjoon slowly pushes through the airport doors, the heat of the place scorches into his lungs. The sunglasses are a godsend and his pants are already hell. He strips off his sweatshirt and the oven-like air immediately bakes his bare arms. It’s refreshing. The damp and gloom he’s used to is nowhere to be found. The sun is a spotlight, blasting everything with light and chasing away the shadows. It feels clean.

Another taxi with a thankfully standoffish cabbie drops him at the nearest department store, where Namjoon wanders among the racks like a lost child. The overly enthusiastic air conditioning system has the store chilled to the temperature of an industrial freezer and Namjoon’s sweat is frozen.  He rubs his arms for warmth and tries to find the men’s department. He’s not completely incompetent; he knows how to shop, but he hasn’t been to a mall in a long time. No one here is going to measure his inseam for a pair of denim shorts.

Namjoon slips into his new clothes in the dressing room. He can see himself from the neck down in one of the many conveniently-placed mirrors. The body clad in a graphic t-shirt and khaki shorts is unrecognizable. He hasn’t worn shorts in longer than he can remember. His legs feel different. Vulnerable. .

He’ll be buying the shorts, he thinks.

Namjoon laughs when he pulls a baby-blue t-shirt that says, “Meows it going?” with a picture of a kitten off the sale rack. It’s immediately added to the pile of purchases.

Despite his discomfort, it doesn’t take long to pick out a few changes of clothes, a backpack, and toiletries while avoiding any and all contact with the store employees. It feels like their eyes are following him. They’re judging him, how he looks, how he walks, and Namjoon finds himself judging them back. His eyes always dart to the back of their pants or beneath their arms to pick out the tell-tale bulges of concealed holsters.

Of course they’re not packing heat, he admonishes himself. Retail hasn’t gotten that bad over the past few years.

He returns to the desert-like heat and blinding sun with his whole life shoved into one backpack.

There aren’t any taxis outside and Namjoon has no phone or number with which to call one. As his complete isolation and helplessness dawns on him, he stands on the sidewalk with the sun beating down, numb. There is no Bentley and no driver on call. He has nowhere to live and no way to make money after he runs out of his emergency cash. He doesn’t know the first thing about job interviews or renting an apartment, though he knows it can’t be that different from interrogating and evaluating contacts and negotiating deals.

Despite being a functioning goddamn adult for years, the rug has been pulled out from under him and he’s having trouble finding his footing.

During this bourgeoning internal crisis, a mud-spattered bus pulls up to the curb in a cacophony of screeching brakes. Namjoon glances up only now realizing he’s standing beneath a bus stop sign. He looks back to the bus and its sleepy-looking driver. Shrugging, he gets on.

It’s humbling to realize that The Night, the inescapable force and haunter of nightmares, doesn’t know how to ride the ing bus.

Yeah, that’s right. A couple of ten-year-olds in the front rows are sniggering while the bus driver slowly explains the fee and how to signal the right stop, not that he knows one stop from another.

Feeling the warm burn of embarrassment, Namjoon slinks down the aisle and drops into an empty seat near the back. The window buzzes against his forehead as the dry scenery slips by.

The night he left, only last night though it’s forever ago, Namjoon just wanted to get away. He was panicking, practically delusional. He sure as hell wasn’t thinking about housing or bus passes or how weird shorts feel. He doesn’t know how to be normal, something that’s becoming increasingly clear with every minute that passes.

I don’t know if I can do this.

The kids from the front of the bus are peeking back at him, hands clutching at the top of the seats. They seem to sense something the adults around them are too world-weary to pick up on. Curious young eyes pick him apart, ask him what he’s doing and why he’s here and why he’s so strange.

Namjoon pretends he doesn’t see them. Then he whips his head around and meets their eyes. The three children shriek in surprise and duck into their seats, hardly hearing their father’s admonishment over their giggles.

Unable to stop himself from smiling, he turns back to the window and closes his eyes. To his displeasure, shadowy wolfish grins are waiting for him, as is Yoongi’s uncertain expression against the backdrop of the compound and the red, red lines of blood encrusting every knuckle.

He picks up his forehead and lets it thump against the window. He has to do this. There’s no going back, not now. Is the feeling in the pit of his stomach despair? Grief for what the comfort and security he’s abandoned? It seems wrong to miss that life, but it was so much easier. Now he’s on a bus to nowhere.

But.

But there are kids here. The kids aren’t afraid to laugh at him. There’s an old lady and her husband at the front of the bus, a tired mom, a young man in a snap-back and expensive sneakers. They look bored, tired, content, or impatient, but they’re not afraid. They’re not pretending, and they’re not begging for mercy. They’re consumed with their own lives, ignoring him, not even aware he exists. Namjoon couldn’t be more pleased.

It’s a different kind of satisfaction than he’s used to, lighter maybe.

I’ve got this.