For a wanderer, belonging can mean many things. It can be a person. It can be a tree to sleep under. It can be something you escape from over and over again. It can be—who knows—Penn Station: complicated as a maze and dirty as a garbage can, jam-packed with people every hour, permeated by the horrid smell of piss. But the day might come where one looks around to see people spitting, fist-fighting, jumping turnstiles, and feel right at home.