Last summer, as I lay awake awaiting a forecasted storm, I left my windows open to feel the warm breeze.
As the first lightning strike lit up the night sky, I heard the boom of thunder. Then, like an echo, I heard screams from the homeless encampment on the river bank — the terror of those without shelter who were exposed to the storm and its potential dangers.
That terror hit me close to my heart, aching with the memory of how close my eight-year-old child and I had been to living on the streets ourselves.
