Authors: Josh Grayson
I’m not the only one at the bridge. Probably a dozen others huddle together in small groups, taking the best protected areas. Everyone is filthy and most give me warning looks when I come too close, so I move to the edge. I really hope the wind doesn’t rise—over on this side, I’m going to get wet for sure.
When the rain starts, it comes all at once, dumping in a torrent and rising from the hot pavement in a fog. I curl my bare, goose-pimpled arms around my legs and set my chin on my knees. I’m unable to control the convulsive shivers rolling through me. Just as I had feared, the wind comes up and I’m soaked, regardless of the bridge overhead. Cold drops of rain roll from my ponytail down my back.
I close my eyes, entirely miserable. I try to contain my growing hysteria, but tears bubble up and sobs jerk through me. I’m completely lost, completely helpless, and completely alone. And so, so tired. Sleep crooks a little finger toward me, but I sit up with a gasp, wide awake again. I can’t let myself fall asleep. What if a stranger tries to hurt me? What if Bill finds me? If another pervert comes along, I'll have nowhere to run and no energy to fight back.
I need a weapon, and all I have is my iPod, which won’t offer any protection. A passing car’s headlights illuminate a piece of glass. When I look closer, I realize it’s an old beer bottle, its label folded and faded by time. I grab the neck of the bottle and slam it carefully against the cement, shaping it into a knife of sorts. Crude, but it’ll work. Folding one arm under my head for a pillow, I lay on my side on the cold pavement. I keep the other arm close to my body, holding the weapon at all times.
Despite my best plans, I fall asleep, lulled by the hypnotic whoosh of cars driving by. I wake often, and whenever I do, I’m reminded of where I am.
I nod off again, gripping the broken bottle hard, only to wake when it slices into my hand, drawing blood. After the wound stops stinging, as hard as I try not to, I begin to fall asleep again.
But then I hear it. Footsteps.
Someone is coming.
CHAPTER THREE
“
No!” I scream, rolling from my side onto my hands and knees. I sweep my arm in a blind arc so the blade targets the shadow beside me. “Get away or I’ll cut you!”
“
Whoa!” comes the reply.
I stop short. That’s not the voice I’d been expecting. Still aiming the shard of glass at the hidden stranger, I wait for another set of headlights to show me the speaker’s face. When it does, I blink with surprise but keep my weapon at the ready.
The small, slightly hunched figure is a black woman with big, sad eyes. Her salt-and-pepper hair is mostly tucked under a tattered grey hat, but a few scraggly curls poke out. In her hands, she holds a small stack of newspapers.
“
I thought you looked a little cold,” she says.
I don’t say anything, but I glare suspiciously. Just because she looks harmless doesn’t mean she is. I learned that from Bill. Maybe she has her own weapon clutched beneath that ratty knit cardigan.
“
No, that’s okay,” the woman assures me. “No reason you should trust me. But I’m here to see if you’d like a blanket of sorts.”
The smile she gives me is brief and tight, but offers kindness. I shake my head, not trusting my voice. My teeth are chattering enough as it is.
“
Well, I’m sure it’s not the softness you’re used to wherever you come from,” the woman says, eyeing my outfit, “but it’s something. Take a few sheets. It’ll help cut the chill, keep the rain off a bit.”
I keep my eyes on her as I accept the newspaper, then grudgingly let her tuck the crinkling paper around my body.
“
There. That ought to help a bit. Know what else helps?”
I shrug at her.
“
Company.”
I swallow hard, feeling an absurd urge to burst into tears. Kindness is not something I expect here. I watch the woman set up her own seat a couple of feet away, then layer newspaper over herself as well. When she’s done, she sighs and gives me a wider smile. She’s missing a couple of teeth, I see.
“
I’m Carol,” she says. “And you are . . . ”
I shiver and almost bite my tongue. “S-S-Sia.”
“
There now, Sia. Give me your hands. I won’t bite.”
I hesitate and stare a little longer, trying to read a lie in the old woman’s eyes, but I can’t find one. I set my glass knife down. Warily, I hold out my hands. My fingertips have gone numb with cold, and they shake. Carol pushes them together, prayer-like, then folds them into her own dry, warm hands.
“
Better?”
I nod, wordless. I am unthinkably relieved as my blood starts to flow again, burning in my fingertips.
I tilt my head toward the glass. “I’m sorry about that.”
“
No, no, child. You’re smart to protect yourself. You don’t know who’s out here. I could have been—” She shrugs and rolls her eyes skyward. “I could have been anyone.”
She squeezes my fingers. “And you don’t look like you’re from around here. Tell me what happened.”
“
It’s a very strange story,” I warn, but something in me is dying to tell this stranger everything. I need to get it out. I need help.
“
Don’t you worry. I’ve heard a lot of strange stories in my day.” This woman has the most patient, soothing gaze I’ve ever seen. I stare, hypnotized. “I’ve been living on the streets for years now. I’ve pretty much seen and heard it all.”
So I tell her. I start slow, telling how I woke up to a whole new world. “I wouldn’t even have remembered my name if it hadn’t been on here,” I say, pointing at the iPod. “I mean, how does that happen?”
Words start to pour from my mouth, tripping over themselves in a need to escape. It is a relief being able to voice what had happened, to release some of my frustration at having absolutely no idea what is going on.
When I’m finished, Carol frowns but, to my surprise, she looks almost pleased. “Well, all right,” she says. “I gotta tell you, missy, you’ve told me a story I’ve never heard before. Good for you, because I’ve already heard most of them. Now. What are we going to do about it? You can’t just wander around like a lost pink puppy, can you? Hey there. Is that a tear I see?”
I give her a sad smile. “It’s just that I’ve been so afraid. So alone. And I didn’t know—” I gasp, but I can’t help it. Tears overwhelm me.
“
There, there,” Carol says, letting go of my hands and wrapping a comforting arm around my shoulders. “Yeah, sometimes kindness brings out the tears, don’t it? Well, I’m not going to leave you all alone, Sia girl. You’re gonna keep this old woman company for a while. At least until we figure out what to do next. Sound all right to you?”
I nod, sobbing.
“
You hungry?” Carol asks. “Well, what kind of question is that? Of course you are. Here’s some bread.”
The bread is hard but helps fill the empty spot in my belly. As soon as I’m done, I’m worried all over again. I’ve just taken food from a stranger. Where did it come from? Was it safe? What have I just eaten?
Carol only chuckles. “You look a little worked up again, Sia.”
“
Where’s the bread from?”
“
Soup kitchen. I always bring extra back for a midnight snack. We’ll go there for breakfast tomorrow.” She considers one pink strap of my top, which is peeking out from under a page of newspaper. “And we might just get you some new clothes while we’re out. Something a little more . . . ”
I look down at my outfit and sigh. “Appropriate?”
“
Warmer,” she says gently.
I nod, not wanting to speak anymore. I’m too tired, and my head is pounding and my nose is all stuffed up. I just want to sleep. Carol must sense this, because she pats the newspapers on the ground.
“
There now, child,” she says. “Lay your head. Sleep. I’ll keep watch. Don’t you worry about a thing.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Carol wakes me with a gentle pat. It feels as if I’ve only slept for a moment, but the sun is up and birds are chirping early morning songs, flitting in circles around nests they’ve built into the underside of the bridge. I’m amazed I managed to sleep at all.
“
We gotta go now,” Carol tells me. “Fold this paper up. We’ll bring it with us. The police will be here soon, cleaning up. We don’t want to be here when that happens.”
“
Okay. But why?”
Carol shakes her head. “Bad things can happen when police show up. People get hurt. On a good day, they might take us to a shelter. And you don’t want that, child. You want to stay outta those places.”
I’m confused. Surely she can’t prefer sleeping in a place like this to sleeping inside an actual building. “Why? Don’t they have real beds there? Wouldn’t that be better than sleeping on the ground?”
“
Sure, sure they have beds,” Carol says, helping to fold the newspaper into a tidy square. “And them beds have bugs in them. There’s always crowds of folks in those places, and nobody cares about nobody. You wanna get attacked or have someone yell at you, then go there. Not for me, no way. I’d rather take my chances with the bridges.”
A tractor trailer rumbles by and belches a thick black cloud of exhaust.
Carol smiles wryly. “Besides, here I can breathe in fresh air.”
It takes about twenty minutes to walk to the soup kitchen, a nondescript storefront with a line already snaking in front of it. We join the lineup and wait for the doors to open. It’s still mostly dark, with the sun just starting to peek over the horizon, and I hug myself, trying to keep warm.
“
You cold, girl? I can help,” says a deep voice behind me.
I turn quickly, catching the eyes of at least four men who seem fascinated by my clothing choice.
Another man laughs, a hacking, sharp sound that makes me think of a hyena. “Oh yeah, I keep you plenty warm,” he assures me. “Hey, that a belly ring? C’mere and let me see that up close and personal, baby.”
“
You boys mind your manners. Leave the girl alone,” Carol chides, then shrugs off her sweater and wraps it around me. “Here. Put this on until we get to the Salvation Army after breakfast. Then we’ll find you something else to wear.”
The sweater smells awful, a miasma of body odor, wet wool, and old food, knit together by layers of dirt, but I slip it on gratefully. The fibers are still warm from Carol’s body. Unfortunately, the sweater falls to beneath where my tiny shorts leave off, making it look like I’m donning a filthy sweater mini-dress. At least I'm not cold anymore. And at least the men’s eyes are now anchored on my legs, not my torso.
Still, the number of stares aimed at my legs is intimidating, but I guess that’s no surprise. It’s obvious why I’m the center of attention. No one else around here looks like I do. This is a population of defeated, scruffy people. Most of them observe life without a hint of light in their eyes. No one smiles. When the door finally opens, they shuffle in like the walking dead.
“
Hey there, Tito,” Carol says, shifting slightly out of line so she can approach a man at the side of the road. “You coming in today?”
The man she calls Tito doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head. Smoky-blue eyes blink up at Carol from under dark lashes, his gaze apologetic, but Carol merely nods, then steps closer to Tito’s grocery cart. The man is beyond dirty. His shoulder-length grey hair is roped with grease, and his torn brown coat makes Carol’s sweater seem brand new in comparison. Tito clings to the handle of the cart. He observes her every step, but he doesn’t move when she peers in.
She looks impressed. “My, my. You’ve been working hard, Tito. Must be twenty new cans in here today. Good for you.”
The man’s lips pull back into what I assume is a smile, but what remains of his yellowed teeth is nothing more than a checkerboard. I have to look away. The effect is more of a good-natured snarl than a smile, but Carol beams back at him anyway.
“
That’s right. Hard work, right, Tito? One step at a time.” She pats the back of one of his hands, the skin of which is weathered and filthy. “You’re doing just fine. Have a good day now.”
She steps back in line, still smiling sweetly to herself. As she and I climb the steps, Carol leans toward me. “Poor, poor man. Father of four, you know. He was such a smart man, too, lecturing about some kind of science at UCLA. But he worked so hard, he lost his mind. His wife left him and took all the children. He never saw them again. Very, very sad.”
I glance back at him. “He won’t come in to eat?”
Carol shakes her head solemnly. “No. Too afraid to leave all those cans in his cart. And he’s right. Someone would steal ‘em.”
“
Doesn’t he get hungry?”
“
Oh, Tito is fine. He comes here every day, and it’s always the same thing. Never talks, never comes inside. But the volunteers know him. They take him a plate.”
The soup kitchen is a big room filled with tables and chairs, the serving and eating area all combined. One wall is taken up by a long counter where volunteers ladle soup and hand out plates of toast. I'm guessing the kitchen is behind the swinging door. Forks and spoons rattle on plates, metal pans clang in the background, and a constant stream of conversation flows from one mouth to another. I see fleeting smiles on the volunteers’ faces as they try to cheer up the hungry people, and occasionally, they are answered.