First morning

The mattress was not my mattress. The bed was not my bed. It was too low to the ground, and too hard. The wood was light, not dark. And it was too narrow. I lay there staring upwards. The ceiling was not my ceiling. The room was bare except for my suitcase and this bed. Dad said at some point my stuff would get there. When it got through customs. I had to be patient. He really used the word "patient" a lot.