“Nice to meet you,” the boy said as he stuck his hand out for a shake. 

Now that the boy was sitting directly in front of him, Jacob was able to notice further details. Across his face was a layer of black dirt, especially concentrated beneath his eyes and above his cheekbones. His hands were equally grimy and under his fingernails rested more dirt.  

Logically, something felt off. But the overwhelming feeling from before numbed any reservations Jacob might've had. As he reached out and grasped the boy’s hand, the feeling surged.

This level of emotional safety unlocked in him something from before language--before he possessed the ability to arrange experience into stories and meaning. It unlocked flashes of being cradled by his mother for the first time after being brought into this cold world; crying, wet, and afraid, the warmth of her arms imprinting in his underdeveloped mind a lasting impression that the journey ahead would not be undertaken alone. 

 “So, where are you headed, mister?” the boy asked innocently. 

His hands were now gripping the edge of the seat on either side of his thighs and his legs were swinging playfully underneath, just small enough to miss the floor by an inch or two. He was leaning forward and was still sporting his animated smile as he stared directly at Jacob. 

“Well, I don’t actually have a destination at the moment,” Jacob responded.

“At the moment? So you will have one in the future?” the boy said. 

“I’m not sure. Maybe.”

“But mister, if you don’t have a destination, how will you know when to get off?”

The question hung in the air for a few moments as Jacob contemplated his answer.

“I don’t have a specific destination, I'll get off when I feel I've traveled far enough. Whatever stop that happens to be, we can call my destination.”