Imagine two worlds, and tell me which one you would choose to live in. The first world is ruled by various kings, who answer to various gods. The majority of people have no choice except to do what their parents did for a living; if their father was a cobbler they will be a cobbler, if their mother was a maid they will be a maid, if their grandfather was a cook they will be a cook. Individual expression is not encouraged, and therefore music and art have changed little over centuries. The news, literature, and systems of communication are all controlled by the government, which publishes what it wants to publish but would never allow criticism of its totalitarian regime. Though there is perhaps a small comfort in not having to choose a profession, it often comes at the cost of expression, experimentation, and joy.

The second world is a little more complicated. It is ruled (for the most part) by elected officials who try to do what people want them to do, but are often corrupted by money or power or fame. It is a world where (slightly frighteningly) people could, in theory, mold themselves into whatever they want to be. Not everyone starts out with the same opportunities, but many are encouraged to find out what makes them happy, and to express their opinions and ideas even if they are at odds with the government or their superiors at work. This means that sometimes there are problems; freedom from outside control means that people propose crazy ideas, like day spas for dogs or pizza with the cheese inside the crust or giant walls between countries that serve no purpose. Not having a supreme emperor also means that entire countries can decide to split off from the rest of the world because they are frustrated with their own political system, and there is no outside leader to tell them that true independence means being comfortable enough to welcome people of different beliefs and backgrounds into your world instead of shutting them out.

Independence is often confused or overused by politicians to be synonymous with freedom and liberty, when in fact it simply means the ability to act free from outside authority. This is a slightly abstract concept, because in reality none of us ever act free from society. But it does mean that a society that values independence will value freedom of expression, freedom of political thought, and freedom of choice. Though the first world proposed offers some sense of security, there is little individual expression and no trust in the people who live there. The second world might seem scarier because it relies on people working together, and because when everyone’s opinion matters there are no easy answers to difficult questions. Is our earthly system perfect?  No; however, even with the problems that exist in our world, I would never trade it for the former one because without the privilege of independence, we would not have the beautiful cacophony of ideas that makes up our world. We would not have literature that pushes us to the edge of our comfort zone and forces us to empathize with people completely different from ourselves. We would not have music that changes our understanding of what music is supposed to be, and has the power to make us laugh or cry uncontrollably. We would not have politicians trying to rework our political system so that it can benefit and include more people. We would not have the ability to look at our lives and decide to follow a path we believe in. We would not believe in our ability to change the world and make it better, and we would not have the privilege of following joy and helping others to do so. And without these independent freedoms, I’m not sure if the world is worth saving, but with them, it would certainly be devastating if it were lost.

“Goddammit!” I stop running as the bus pulls away in front of me, spraying water on the sidewalk. Ducking under a green awning to escape the deluge, I note the scantily clad mannequins in the window with interest. Maybe there’s a silver lining in missing the bus; Laura texted earlier saying she wanted to “talk,” which would inevitably involve a “discussion” more akin to an “argument” about marriage and our future.

“You waiting for the bus too?” I turn; how long has that woman been standing by the streetlamp? She stands out like a sunflower against the dark street, umbrella raised like a yellow flag and bright orange rain boots planted like rubber ducks on the pavement. I had boots like that when I was eight; I remember running through puddles with my sister and neighbor Andrew whenever it rained.

I nod. It hasn’t rained in months. The ground has forgotten how to soak up water, and rivulets run down umbrellas and street signs and window shades, pooling like liquid glass in gutters, killing bloodroot and bushes of lavender cotton in front yards. It can’t be later than six but it feels like midnight. Behind me yellow beams of light spill over illuminated silver bras, feather boas, and string lights in the shapes of lips, bouncing off the sheets of water that fall outside the awning. Glowing in the center of the window display is the silhouette of a nude woman on the cover of a book called "The Sleeping Lady; What Your Erotic Dreams Mean."

The woman follows my gaze to the photograph and blushes, covering a smile with the back of her hand. Her eyes dart away from the window, and land on the Tupperware salad I am holding.

“You eating raw?” Her slightly fractured Japanese accent gives her words a direct quality, as though she is talking to an old friend. The light from the window throws shadows on her face; two eyes laugh out behind dark wisps of hair, faint laugh lines lead to ageless eyes, teeth gleam bright like newly washed shells.

“Nope.” Laura made the salad for me that morning; kale is, according to recent studies, proven to add ten years to one’s life.

The woman grins toothily. “My friend, she goes raw last year, she say it makes her feel much better.”

“I don’t think I have that much self-control.”

“Neither do I. My son, he get mad at me because all I eat is candy.” She giggles at a private joke.

I huddle further towards the shop door in case she wants to take shelter under the awning, but she seems happy stepping in and out of a puddle by the curb. How can she have a son? I try to look at her more closely without looking like I’m staring at her. She looks twenty, maybe thirty. It’s hard to tell, actually, in the light from the window behind us; from one angle she could easily be a mother, from another she looks barely eighteen. Her yellow umbrella reminds me of the giant beach balls we used to play with in the summer.

“I like your umbrella.”

“Thanks.” She beams, and her voice becomes confidential. “My friend gave it to me, and then he died. So it’s very special, you know.”

I nod.

“You work here?”

“Yup, two blocks down. I work at Bridgewater Insurance.”

“Ah. My son, you know, he works up in Seattle at a big law firm. You like baseball?”

I shrug. It was my dream to go professional when I was in middle school, but lost interest after the coach told me I could never make the high school team.

“My son, he very good at baseball. Went to UCLA, you know, with a scholarship. Very good school, much better than his mama!”

“That’s a good school, I have a friend who went there.” Andrew, my childhood neighbor—we lost touch when he went to high school, because he was two years older and hung out with the popular crowd.

“Yep. He’s a good boy. Always running, running, running when he was growing up. He loved being outside.

“Yeah, I remember those days.”

“Yep. You have a roommate?” Her eyes grow bright, and she takes a step closer.

“My girlfriend and I share an apartment.”

“If you get a roommate, make sure they’re O.K. My one right now, I think she steal from me.”

“What? What did she steal?”

She takes a confidential tone, looking down at her wrinkled hands.

“She borrowed money last week, for the bus, but never paid me back, so this week when she ask me, I say no, I need to keep my money too for the bus, you know?”

She waits for affirmation; I nod, and she continues. “So then something I think suspicious happens last night. I come home, you know, after dinner, and I open my bedroom door and she’s inside my room, snooping through my purse. She say she just reorganizing my things, but I think a little suspicious, no?

“You need to get yourself a new roommate.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what everybody say. I need to get myself a new roommate.” She sighs.

“That’s what my boyfriend say. Well, not my boyfriend, but, you know.” The frown suddenly disappears from her face and her hand comes up to suppress a giggle. A silver Honda sprays her leggings with a fine mist of gutter water.

“Do you want to come under the awning? There’s plenty of room.”

She beams and steps closer. A pale mannequin wearing a gold sequined g-string pouts at her shoulder.

She pats my arm. “That’s a nice rain jacket. Nice bright green, like a cucumber.”

“Thanks, my girlfriend picked it out.” She looks at me with raised eyebrows, as if she knows Laura and I have been arguing recently.

The rain slams down harder, drumming out almost every other noise. I am caught between two leaks; step too much to the right and water will pour down my temple and into my ear—too much to the left and it runs down my arm and between my fingers. The only other person out is the homeless man across the street, wedged in the doorway of Union Bank to keep dry. My new acquaintance dips the toe of her boot in a puddle.

“You know if this bus go to the valley?”

“Yeah, there’s one that comes here, but you’d better ask the driver. I’m taking a different one.”

“But one goes to the valley?”

“Yeah, it’s running late I think.”

“Ah good. You take the bus a lot around now?”

“When it’s raining.”

She nods. “You have a dog?”

“No, two cats.”

“Ah. I miss my dog! My son, he take him away last week and it’s so sad without him.” Her face was slightly pouted, like a child whose favorite toy had been taken away. She took a step closer.

“He say he will give him back next week though; I forgot to feed him one day and so he take him away. I think he will give him back next week, do you?

I nod.

“He take the dog to get some shots from the vet, and a check-up, you know, so probably a good idea.” Her face brightens.

“I’m sure.”

“But it is so lonely at home without him! Sometimes, you know…” her voice becomes confidential again, “sometimes, I have these episodes. Like manic, you know? I can get a little crazy, and if Rosie’s not there I just don’t know what I might do!” Her eyes wander out to the street, and she smiles wistfully.

“It is so hard, you know, not having a dog.” She hums a few notes of “Forever Young” under her breath.

I check my watch. Ten minutes. Laura would love this woman. Laura is a psychologist, and always talks to strangers when we’re out. I am usually the opposite.

“My friend gave me this umbrella, before he died.” She looks up into its spokes like there is something new to see there. “So it is very special.”

I nod. Maybe she has short-term memory loss.

“Sometimes I miss him, you know?”

I nod; Andy died his freshman year of college from binge drinking (a hazing ritual). My first kiss had been at his funeral; his sister Angie asked me to go outside with her halfway through (she was holding back tears) and we went and sat at the top of Carleton Hill in the dry, dry heat.

“You’re ok though, Greg. Except you think too much sometimes, no?” I’m startled out of my reverie by her tone, which is piercingly direct. I am startled by the recognition in her eyes; the kind of recognition you have when looking at your mother, your sister, your own face looking back at you in your mirror. Ten seconds later, the moment has passed. Her eyes lose their focus, and she looks up again at her umbrella, her voice dreamy and broken once more.

“I hope Andy gives the dog back soon. So sad here without him.”

I don’t see the bus until its close enough to touch, red numbers blinking sleepily through the downpour. Holding my backpack up to fend off the rain, I step into the elements, caught for a brief moment between the comforting golden glow of the shop and bus windows.

"This is me. Goodbye!” I shout over my shoulder as I rifle through my coat pocket for spare change. The bus pulls away with a lurch as I sigh into a seat, dripping onto the grey plastic floor. Inside the cocoon of the heated bus I shrug off my jacket; outside the bus a yellow raincoat dissolves into the night. I start to nod off, following the example of the other passengers, until a thought crosses my mind and I sit up: I never told the woman my name.