Chapter 1
I was curled up in the cardboard box trying to get some sleep. It was one of those big boxes that appliances come in, a dishwasher or washing machine I think. I’d opened up the bottom and flattened it, and was lying with half of it under me against the cold concrete, and half over me. I was dressed in old, worn blue jeans, a torn wool pullover sweater, wool socks, a knit watch cap, a man’s parka that I’d found at a construction site and some work boots from the Salvation Army.
I heard the voices far below me. Some homeless people sleep outside in the alleys, behind dumpsters, under bridges. I guess it gives them a sense of independence or pride, or it makes it easier to run when the cops come, or maybe they’re just too far gone to know where they are. Some go to the shelters on a night this cold, but that wasn’t an option for me. I preferred to find an abandoned building, or at least one that was empty at night. I didn’t like to sleep on the ground floor, where there was too much chance of being discovered. If it was possible, I liked to climb higher. There was less chance someone would notice me, less chance that someone would try to steal from me or cause me harm, and up higher I could see better what was going on around me.
I was on a second-floor landing that looked out over what had been the manufacturing floor of the old factory. Most of the equipment was gone now, but the trash remained, and had actually been added to over the years as people dumped their junk or the homeless people camped here and abandoned stuff for one reason or another.
The first voice I heard, drifting up from the floor below, sounded like a protest, like someone was objecting to being accosted, disturbed, or robbed. The second voice was clearer. It said, “Shut up, ya bum!” It was a male voice, deep and harsh.
“But it’s mine!” the first voice pleaded. “You got no right.”
“Shut up!” the second voice commanded again.
I slid quietly to the edge of the landing and peered down. A dark figure was standing over another that appeared to be kneeling, or cowering. There was a scuffle and the standing man yanked something away from the other one. It could have been a blanket, maybe a coat. It was hard to see clearly in the semi-darkness. The only light came dimly through the dirty windows from the pole lights out on the street.
The kneeling man got up, making a grab for whatever was being stolen from him. The thief backed up, pulling something from under his coat. The light flashed off the shiny steel blade just before he drove it hard into the other man’s torso. He pulled the knife out and thrust again, and then a third time, and the other man went down. The thief put the knife away and knelt by his victim, quickly going through his pockets. Then he pawed through the man’s meager possessions, tossing things aside and taking what he wanted. Satisfied, he stood and fled, running out a side door to the alley.
I waited until he was gone, and to make sure there was no one else around. Then I slipped out of my cardboard cocoon and crept down the stairs. I crossed to the man lying on the floor and held my fingers under his nose, to see if he was breathing. There was nothing.
In the dim light, I could just make out his face, and I realized I recognized him. He was known as ‘old Joe’, and I’d seen him around the neighborhood, but I didn’t really know him. I kept to myself as much as I could and tried not to be noticed by the others on the street.
I stood and moved silently to the door and out of the building. I hated to give up the sleeping accommodations that I had so carefully arranged for the night, but I couldn’t stay there now. Sooner or later, the body would attract attention, and I couldn’t afford to be seen. There was nothing I could do for the dead man, but I had to take care of myself.
There were thousands of homeless in the city, most of them old men and women, and most people chose to ignore them. They became almost invisible. But anyone who saw me would notice me and remember me, and they’d call someone, thinking they were doing the right thing. They would assume they were helping, but I didn’t want or need their help. The last thing I needed was to be picked up, taken somewhere, put into the system, and then sent to a place much worse than where I was. I was better off on my own. They wouldn’t understand that I could take care of myself. When they looked at me, all they would see was a girl about ten years old.