I had been travelling for more than thirty-six hours when I stumbled off the train in Portland in the pouring rain. I'd spent part of the first night huddled into the corner of a deserted waiting hall somewhere in Kentucky until the first train east left in the early morning. I had lost count of how often I had changed trains and how much time I had wasted sitting around on draughty platforms in places I'd forgotten the minute I left, waiting for my next connection. The long journey had become an indistinct blur of landscapes whizzing past the windows of the train.

I had hardly eaten since lunch on the day I left, only the sandwich that nice elderly lady on the train to St. Louis had pulled from her basket when my stomach had rumbled audibly and some battered peaches I'd had in my bag, and was long past feeling hungry. Exhausted, I had slept through most of today, waking up when the train shuddered to a halt in Portland station late on a gloomy grey afternoon.

It was pouring. People hastily fumbled for their umbrellas or pulled their hats down low on their brow. I had neither an umbrella nor a hat. I didn't have anything useful with me except for the penknife in my pocket. All I had hastily stuffed into my emptied schoolbag prior to my haphazard departure through Mom's bedroom window and down over the roof of the back porch was my copy of "Treasure Island" with my father's photo inside, my savings – of which now remained a measly little heap of small change – and the grey cotton sweater I had put on over my shirt at some point in a futile attempt at keeping warm.

The money I had left wasn't even enough to buy a ticket for the slow train to the village, so I would have to walk. It was just six or seven miles, basically no big deal for someone as well trained in swimming and running and walking longer distances as I was, but I was already shivering in my thin clothes with cold and exhaustion the very moment I got off the train and half-starved on top of everything else.

The road dragged on and on. Water dripped from my hair, running into my collar, trickling down my back in freezing little rivulets. My trousers were soaked to the knees, and as I had simply given up trying to avoid the endless succession of puddles on my way, my shoes were soon drenched with filthy slop.

I plodded on and on stubbornly, the alluring vision of Grandma's warm and cosy kitchen and of a sofa to sleep on the only thing that kept me going. All other thoughts were stowed away somewhere in the back of my mind, except, strangely, for some snippets of children's songs and nursery rhymes circling through my tired brain with unnerving obstinacy. I had a headache that grew worse steadily, and my neck and shoulders felt stiff and tense. A blister began to form on my right heel, the hard leather of my shoe chafing against the sore spot painfully with every step.

Once, I stopped under a large tree for a moment, leaning against its rough bark, glad to be sheltered from the rain that was still beating down relentlessly. I yearned to sit or better lie down for a while, but the sensible part of me was still alert enough to realize that would be the worst I could possibly do, so I trudged on, mechanically putting one foot in front of the other.

When I took the turnoff towards the coastal path, I had no eyes for the sight I normally loved more than almost anything else and couldn't get enough of. For the first time in my life, I hardly deigned to look out over the sea. I knew without looking that it would be choppy and grey and forbidding and just shuffled on.

Finally, the lights of the village appeared dimly in the distance. I sped up a little, although every muscle in my body ached. Promptly, I tripped on a large tree root that jutted into the narrow pathway and found myself sprawled in the mud. I picked myself and my soiled bag up, tried in vain to wipe my dirty hands clean on my damp trousers and didn't have the strength to resist the desire to shed childish tears at the humiliation of being covered in soggy sludge from head to toe.

By the time I arrived at my grandparents' little house, I couldn't have said for certain if it was tears or rain that clouded my vision. My head was swimming, a steady pain hammered in my temples. I was cold and hot at the same time, my clothes drenched with rain and sweat.

I longed to stretch myself out on the worn old sofa in the warm, familiar kitchen, to have some hot tea or soup and to be fussed about a bit by Grandma. This was just a knock on the door away, but I hesitated, leaning against the wall lest my wobbly knees gave way, suddenly afraid that coming here had been a terrible mistake.

While Grandpa had always defended my right to choose my own way through life, he had also made me promise I would at least finish school before deciding on my future.

I had tried very hard to keep my promise, but I just couldn't stand life at "home" any more. The row with Mom had just been the tip of the iceberg, the straw that broke the camel's back.

Mom had never given up on her high-flying plans for me. She wanted me to continue my education in college, preferably to become a doctor like Dan and come back to succeed him in his practice one day, like he had succeeded his father. Keep the family business running. I knew her intentions were good, but the life she was imagining for me within the limits of the town, the sea hundreds of miles away, seemed unbearably predictable and dull.

She had dismissed my dreams of travelling the seas as childish fantasies that I'd outgrow one day. Most of my classmates had shared my ambition of setting out to see the great big world out there when we had been nine or ten or dreamed of other exciting careers, military generals and police chiefs, firemen and ocean liner captains, but by now they had downsized their dreams as society demanded and aspired to be farmers and tailors and mechanics like their fathers, to take over their farms and shops, to get married and stay in this place forever, whereas I seriously kept holding on to my vision.

I wanted to get out, get away from all the well-meant exhortations to be good and work hard and pray and fit in.

I didn't want to fit into that place. Mom might be happy in her role as the doctor's wife and as one of those pillars of the parish – she wasn't overly religious but had formed close ties with many ladies from the local congregation and their families – and had seemed to feel at home in no time.

I still hated just about everything there. I despised the gossip, the watchful eyes of Mom's friends, the narrow-mindedness, the charity bazaars and church outings and garden parties where you met the same people over and over and over again. Everybody knew everything about everybody else, and nobody ever seemed to do anything on their own.

All that gregarious activity felt oppressive and stifling to me. I wanted to be left alone with all that. I didn't mind being different, but I was disappointed that Mom didn't understand when I begged them to let me stay at home instead of being presented as the doctor's stepson at the umpteenth church picnic. But God forbid that someone should suspect the doctor's family was less than perfect. In towns like these, it was all about appearances and reputation and doing what society dictated. My aversion to all that grew more and more the older I got.

I loved my willow by the river and my books and music all right, but the only people I loved unconditionally in this place were my sisters. I would miss Jess and Janie badly, and I hoped Mom wouldn't succeed in turning them into well-behaved, neatly dressed, totally brainless miniature ladies like the daughters of some of her friends, but that was not enough to make me stay.

I squared my shoulders, shaking the rain out of my hair and wiping down my face with the white handkerchief the old lady on the train had given me. I hadn't travelled for two full days and nights to hover timidly outside my grandparents' house. I turned towards the door and knocked twice.

Nothing stirred. With a sinking feeling, I wondered if they had gone out.

I knocked again, louder.

Waited, heart pounding, almost ready to concede defeat.

Then, finally, energetic steps behind the door, and I could hear my grandmother's voice, so strong and loud for such a dainty woman, calling out to Grandpa, "John, keep an eye on the soup while I answer the door. It's probably Ted, he promised to bring –"

She stopped abruptly as the door swung open and she saw me, eyes wide in surprise. One hand flew up to touch her hair in a gesture of sheer bewilderment.

"Mick! My God, boy, what are you doing here? How did you get here? Just look at you! Soaking wet and dirty from head to toe, and where's that blood coming from?" She brought out a hankie and dabbed at my face.

Trying to clean my face was so typical of her that I managed a little smile. A sharp sting of pain shot through my head, and I winced and closed my eyes for a moment.

"Mick! What's wrong? Are you ill?" Grandma cried.

I swayed, suddenly dizzy, staggering against the doorframe with my eyes still shut.

"John! Come quick!" Grandma shouted. I felt her arm around my middle in an attempt to steady me, but she was too tiny to support my full weight.

"Jesus, Mick! What the heck …" My grandfather's rumbling baritone, his characteristic heavy footsteps hurrying over, his hand on my shoulder. "Sit down on the stairs for a minute before you break down on the spot", he said gruffly.

I turned my head sideways to look at him, but the movement made me dizzy again. My stomach lurched, and I groaned. "I'm so dizzy", I whispered. "I'm feeling so sick."

Grandpa helped me sit down on the stairs and sat beside me, lightly patting me on the back. "Breathe deeply now, my lad. Keep calm. It'll pass."

Grandma went to fetch a towel and gently dried my face and hair, careful not to jog my head too much.

I took a few deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling slowly. I felt so relieved that they hadn't given me hell for running away from Missouri (at least not immediately), so glad to be out of the rain and cold and off my feet, that tears began to flow again. I just couldn't help it. I sniffled helplessly.

Grandpa went on in a somewhat more severe tone, "And although I'm dying to hear why you're showing up here without a warning, all soaked through and filthy, and I'll be damned if your mom knows where you are, I won't ask you any questions now. We will have a serious talk about that later. Do you think you can get up?"

"M-hm", I murmured but didn't move.

"Let me take those dirty shoes off you before you spoil the carpet", Grandma interjected, kneeling down to untie my laces, prise the sodden shoes and socks from my cold feet and rub them dry. "Goodness, Mick, your feet are icy! And they have grown so large that I haven't got any socks for you to wear … dear me, your heel is bleeding, too! I'll take care of that in a moment. Now go and take off those wet clothes. We've got a nice fire going in the kitchen, that'll get you warmed up in no time. I'll see if I can find something for you to wear. John, you get him another towel and a blanket."

I shuffled into the kitchen, feeling shakier by the minute, and dropped down on the sofa in the corner, dirty clothes and all. Grandpa helped me peel off my soaked sweater, shirt and trousers and towelled me off so roughly and thoroughly as if trying to strip off my skin. I didn't complain, though. I was far too busted.

Grandma came back with a bundle of clothes – flannel plaid pajamas and Grandpa's quilted dressing gown. I struggled into them as best I could without getting up. I was sure my legs wouldn't carry me if I tried to stand.

I was taller than Grandpa now, so the sleeves were much too short and my legs stuck out ridiculously, too, but I didn't care. Wrapping Grandma's old grey blanket around me, I leaned back into the familiar worn brown cushions. My head seemed ready to explode at any moment, my cheeks were burning, while my hands and feet were clammy and cold as ice and shivers kept running down my back. My limbs ached, my throat felt sore, and there was a dull pain in my chest.

After Grandma had cleansed and bandaged my heel, she tried to feed me a bit of soup, which I found embarrassing. She handed me the spoon when I protested, but I barely ate a few spoonfuls before exhaustion finally took its toll on me and I fell asleep, spoon still in hand.

I don't remember much of the following days that passed in a feverish haze. Grandma had brought some pillows and a quilt to turn the kitchen sofa into a comfortable bed for me. I slept most of the time, a fitful sleep often disrupted by breathing difficulties caused by my blocked nose or coughing fits that gave me a piercing, stabbing pain in my lungs. Sometimes I managed to sit up long enough to eat a bit, and once Dr. Logan came to examine me, prescribed some medicine and bed rest and talked to my grandparents in a serious tone at the far end of the room while I was drifting back off into sleep.

One thing I recall very clearly is the dream. For the first time in years, I dreamed of my father. He was rowing a small boat away from a sandy cove on the rocky coast near Grandpa's house while I tried to run along the beach, desperate to catch up with him. My feet, however, kept sinking into the fine sand, deeper and deeper until I was hardly able to move. I wanted to call out for him, but no sound came from my mouth, no matter how hard I tried.

I woke up to find Grandma's warm dry hand on my cheek, wiping away my tears. She gave me a moist-eyed smile and said, "You've been having some bad dreams, it seems. You were crying out for your daddy all the time and struggling against the covers and I couldn't wake you."

With my mind still ensnared in the realm of the dream and numbed by the ongoing fever, completely disoriented in space and time, I absently asked, "Where's Dad?"

"Mick? Are you raving?" Grandma gasped in horrified puzzlement, gripping my face with both hands to stare into my bewildered eyes.

I blinked at her confusedly.

"You know where your daddy is, don't you?"

The fearfully pleading tone of her unusually small voice shocked me into realizing what I had said. Mortified, I looked away. "Of course I know. It was just the dream", I croaked in a thick voice. "I felt so alone. I miss him still."

"I know, dear. I wish I could bring him back. You'd need your father around." She sighed. "But you're not alone as long as we are there. And your mom, of course."

I didn't want to think of my mother. I didn't want to think of the state of frenzy she'd have worked herself and everyone else into by now. I couldn't imagine ever facing her again, her reproachful voice, her look of disappointment. I was a failure in her eyes, that much was certain. Maybe she wasn't quite wrong about that, considering my screwed-up attempt at running away.

"Speaking of your mother, I'm going to go over to the Mulligans' to use that telephone thingy. Your mom needs to know where you are." She pushed aside some stray curls that had fallen over my eyes.

I wanted to object fiercely, feeling betrayed, but I didn't have the strength for loud protest or a lengthy argument.

Turning over on my side, away from Grandma's touch, I buried my head in the pillows and pretended to doze off again.