Mrs. Marcy, the neighbor from upstairs, said she saw you the other night, shivering behind the Greyhound Bus Station. I went to look for myself. There was an old man warming his hands over a burning garbage can. I asked if he’d seen a brown eyed girl with a missing pinkie finger. He didn’t answer, just blew on his hands and stared into the flame.
When we were kids, you talked about living like a hobo, living in train cars, basements and abandoned buildings. You weren’t scared, not even then.
I told you that was ok––I could be scared for both of us.