"Sir, can you help me?
It's cold and I've nowhere to sleep.
Is there somewhere you can tell me?"

None of them noticed the man on the green steel bench at the edge of the park, whose jacket was too thin for the weather and backpack too small for his needs. No one took notice of his feet in ragged black Converse sneakers which could not begin to protect his toes from frostbite. Under a hoodie—his only protection from the wind—his long hair curled up in a pile on top of his head.  

Shivering and doubled over, he rode the bench like his life depended on it but could have been invisible. Common sense would tell anyone get out of the bitter cold and he would have, if he had a place to go. In no time at all, a self important security guard would wander by, wielding a flashlight, its arc of light swooping from side to side until its beam settled on him. The guards, eager to exert what little power and authority they were given, were most savage after nightfall.

“Need to move along,” a guard would say, not a drip of compassion in his tone. “Can’t sleep here. You guys know that.” The man would plead to stay, just for a little while, but the guard would grip the nightstick at his side and stare at him with stone cold, unfeeling eyes.  “No loitering, I said. Move along.”

To avoid getting a nightstick in the ribs or a kick in the gut, he would have to get up, walk into the wind and wander away, but to where? Somewhere. Anywhere. Nowhere.

There were shelters, but by this time of night, and on a night as cold as this one, they were full. It didn’t really matter, though. JC tried not to stay at shelters. They were a good place for getting yourself robbed or beat up. He was safer on the streets. That was a quickly learned lesson, taught the hard way.

He coughed into the frigid air, his breath catching on the sharp edges of cold. He nearly choked and coughed again, this time a loud, wet cough.

Shit. The last thing I need to worry about right now is getting sick. I need to get out of this wind before I —

 “Nasty cough you got there.”

The voice was gritty but feminine, the sound igniting a long forgotten part of him. Sparks shot up his spine as he twisted around, looking for the source, the body that belonged to the voice. She stood behind the bench a few feet, leaning against the trunk of a tree. Her face was obscured by low hanging branches, heavy because of the ice encrusted limbs. He could make out two legs wrapped in tight denim and feet in worn, ratty gym shoes. And a coat. He was immediately jealous of her thick, wool coat.

He cleared his throat. “Sorry. Am I disturbing you?”

She took her time answering. A bit of fiery red glowed in the dark. A light suck, a sizzle, a plume of smoke. “Nope,” she said finally, taking another puff of her cigarette. “Just remarking on it. You take anything for it?”

Unbelievable. He shook his head. “Do I sound like I took anything for it?”

“Hey, just asking. Being polite or whatever. I’ve been standing here for 5 minutes. Didn’t want you to jump out of your skin if I made a noise.”

He turned back around, dug his hands further into his pockets and hunched over, trying to block out some of the cold.

“I’ve got some stuff. Cough medicine, I mean. I don’t live far from here. I could bring it back, if you want.”

He’d been curious at first. Now he just wanted her to go away. “Whatever,” he mumbled into the collar of his jacket. Unfortunately, since he wanted her to leave, her voice seemed to be closer than before. He heard her steps, crunching across the few feet of grass between them. And now her feet stepped into his view as she stood in front of him.

“Hey. “ She tapped him on the shoulder. “Dude. You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just fuckin’ freezing.”

“You must be new. Out here, I mean.”

He rolled his eyes up toward her. “What makes you say that?”

“Veterans have thicker coats for this kind of weather. And more layers. You probably have all of your clothes in your bag. How are they keeping you warm in there? And you’re too clean.”

A brisk wind blew between them. The fierce chill took his breath away. He blinked through the gust, choking back the tears. God, it was cold. He shivered, his teeth chattering.

“I’ve been out here about a year, if you have to know. Little longer, maybe. Friends bring me clothes, sometimes. Money. I buy soap and razors. I have to be clean to get work.”

She shrugged. “Still new, compared to some.” Despite no invitation to do so, she sat on the bench next to him, and offered him the stub of her cigarette. “Want a puff?”

He shook his head. What does this chick want from me? “Not much for nicotine.”

“Ha. Just heroin?” He cut his eyes at her and looked away. “Sorry. You drink?”

He didn’t answer. She dug into her pocket anyway and pulled out a mini bottle of vodka and offered to him. He didn’t take it. She tapped his arm with it. He didn’t move, other than to shiver and rock forward and back, forward and back. She set it on the bench next to him.

“The vodka might warm you up a little. If you overcome your shyness, come find me. 621 State Street. Not far from here. I might have a coat, but you’ll have to come and get it.”

JC listened to her steps until the sounds disappeared. He glanced to his side at the few ounces of vodka next to him and he debated whether or not to drink it. And then debated again.

Some vices were easy to get rid of. Some weren’t. The alcohol wasn’t easy. When he got money, that’s what he used to spend it on. Maybe a little bit of food, but a good swallow would take the hunger pangs away. More swallows made every care in the world disappear.  He saw evidence of this all up and down the sidewalk; old men who had long since given up, who stayed drunk and spent their days hurling nonsense at passersby. He couldn’t risk it. He didn’t want to be out here forever.

Another sound interrupted his thoughts, piercing the night. A whistle-- security was coming. His breath hung in the air as he huffed with effort to stand, to steady his legs, to wiggle his frozen toes. He snatched up the bottle, shoved it into his pocket and started walking.

*****

He survived the night burrowed up against a dumpster so the wind would blow over him and not through him. He managed to curl up among the piles of garbage and dozed for a few hours until the sunlight was bright and warm enough to wake him.

JC stretched his legs, almost crying out in pain. His limbs were stiff from clenching in a perpetual shiver. By force of habit, he dug into his pockets. He was surprised when his fingers closed around the bottle. He pulled it out, stared at it, and almost broke a smile. The seal was still intact.

If anyone cared enough to spend an entire day with a homeless person, they’d find it to be a pretty lifeless, listless, pointless experience. It was nothing more than day after day after day of moving around. In a large, urban city, he had his pick of homeless shelters and halfway houses. A decent breakfast could be found any of them if he could get in line early enough. After, he stood at the corner with other men looking for work, hoping to pick up an odd job here or there. Those gigs were good if you could get them. An honest day’s work, a hot lunch, and cash in your pocket. JC hadn’t been lucky enough to land many of them, but he always showed up to stand in line.

If there was no work, there was more wandering to do. If nothing, it kept him sane. Kept his wits about him. Kept him from contemplating theft—robbing a store or mugging someone. His yearning and longing for food and maybe just a swallow of alcohol teetered on a ragged, uneven edge. Some days… some days he had to fight himself to resist.

Today was a day there was no work, so there was wandering and loitering, avoiding park security and shop owners of course, until it was time for lunch. He had a few favorite places, especially one with a cutie who served a few days a week. She was serving today, he saw as he shuffled into her line.

He lingered for awhile to make sure there was a break between people, so he didn’t have to hurry through the line and he could speak to her. Ridiculous, since they only ever said a few words to each other. He always flashed a shy smile and his secret weapon—his bright blue eyes—and she always blushed when she said hello. Sometimes she spooned a little extra into his bowl if she could get away with it. She got away with it pretty often.

“What’s up,” he said with a brisk nod.

“Pretty cold out. Hot chicken noodle for you guys, today.”

She pulled a Styrofoam bowl off of the stack and filled it with two ladles of soup, then a smidge more broth. Not much, but it was the thought that mattered. Plus, the soup was hot and he was cold. She handed him an extra package of crackers and smiled. He accepted the bowl and nodded his thanks, plucked a spoon from the cardboard box of silverware and an already room temperature cup of water.

He chose a seat near a window and ate slowly. Sometimes he could imagine himself in his old life, at a café, having a bowl of soup and reading a book. Checking out the sports page. Most of the time, though, he just stared out of the window and tuned out the din of a hundred other men down on their luck, who’d had to work hard to humble themselves into accepting a free meal.

After lunch, there was more walking and talking with people he knew or just happened to meet. He kept to himself mostly, but there were many, many familiar faces. Dinner was random, at the closest shelter or church that happened to be serving a free meal. He would sit and eat slowly, not because he was savoring every bite but because after dinner he’d be back out again in search of a place to pass the hours until breakfast. It was easier if it was warm, but from what he’d heard, tonight was going to be even colder than last night.

He was already shivering.

Every day was Groundhog’s Day, pretty much the same. The only way he was able to keep track of the days was to look at the newspapers in the machine or at the newsstands. Monday through Saturday, he got up, found a men’s room and tried to clean up, some. Gas stations were the best for that.

A single sink and toilet and a door with a lock gave him enough privacy to strip down, soap up a rough paper towel and scrub. He’d soap up his face and shave, and use a travel tooth brush and toothpaste to brush his teeth. Lastly, he’d duck his head under the faucet and shampoo his hair with whatever sample or travel sized shampoo he’d come across. Pat dry with some paper towels and rake a comb through it. He needed a haircut pretty badly. Maybe the next time he got some work, he could spare eight dollars. 

He’d become ingenious over time, as anyone with limited resources and a quick mind would. He only had a few pairs of clothes, but switched them out every other day. He pulled off his socks and underwear, jeans and shirt and dumped them into the sink. Shampoo was not only good for hair, but for washing clothes. He sudsed and scrubbed then rinsed, wrung them out and put them back into a plastic bag. When he got to where he could sit for a few hours, he’d lay them out in the sun to dry. In cold weather, he went to a Laundromat. For fifty cents, he would have warm, dry clothes. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked.

Every few months, he ran into someone he knew. JC imagined they felt guilty for not helping him when he needed them the most. More than a year later, they fell over themselves to offer help, but JC was self sufficient, mostly.

About a month ago, he’d seen Ernie, a guy he used to call his best friend at one time, walking out of a Subway restaurant. JC had planned to just walk by, sure that Ernie wouldn’t recognize him in a tattered jacket, full beard and unruly mop of curls. Ernie just happened to turn back for some reason, and ran right into him.

“Oh, sor—” Recognition flashed in his eyes and his mouth sprouted a wide smile. In his excitement, Ernie grabbed JC by the arms and shook him. “Hey! Hey, man!”

 JC felt a desperate instinct to break and run. Instead, he lifted his head, his beard thick and overgrown and nodded. “Hey. What’s up?”

He finally released JC and stepped back, regaining his cool and calm demeanor. He shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged, nonchalant. “On my way to my sister’s. She needs some help with a fence or something. Hey, what’s up with you? You doing alright? Looking kind of woolly—”

JC ducked and weaved to avoid Ernie giving his beard a tug. He was already embarrassed enough that his beard was speckled with gray hairs.  “Doing okay,” he said. “Hangin’ in there.”

Ernie nodded, his lips pressed together in a thin, tight line. JC hated this part of running into people. No one knew what to say after the pleasantries—the hello, how are you phase. JC didn’t want to ask about Ernie’s wife—she hated him. Ernie probably didn’t want to ask about anything that mattered, because he really didn’t want to know. What would start as a short pause would grow into a longer, more uncomfortable pause of silence while they stared at each other, each probably wondering the other’s life was like.

That whole scene made JC uncomfortable. He took a step back. Ernie perked, his brows shooting up in a burst of what seemed like fake enthusiasm.

“Well, so. Hey, are you hungry? Let me grab you a couple of sandwiches or something—“

“Actually, I’m okay for food. I usually hit a shelter if I need a meal. I don’t want to take what I don’t need, but I do need some cash. Even a couple of bucks would help.”

Ernie’s face clouded. “Cash?”

A long simmering cauldron bubbled over. “Yeah, cash,” he snapped. “Look, if I was a drunk, I’d be drunk and I’d ask for a bottle of something. If I was a crackhead, I’d be cracked out. A couple of bucks won’t get me anything good, anyway. I’m short on money and I need to look like I can work. I need to shave. I need a pair of socks. So, yeah… cash.”

Ernie wiped his face with his hands, smoothing down his own beard.

JC scoffed and turned to walk away. “You know what, man? Never mind. Just…” JC took another step back, but Ernie grabbed him by the arm.

“Hey. Come on. I didn’t mean it that way, man. I just have my debit card, no cash. That’s all I meant, but you wanna go for a ride? I’ll stop at an ATM. I’ll even pick up some things for you and drop you off somewhere safe. You want to do that?”

Humbled and embarrassed about his outburst, JC sat in Ernie’s car--an older model, cherry red Ford Festiva and rode along while they stopped at a drive-thru ATM. A few minutes later, Ernie swung into the parking lot of a CVS Pharmacy.

“You’re sure this is okay?”

“Yeah,” Ernie said, and clapped him on the shoulder. “We’re friends, right? The least I can do is help you out when I see you. So, let’s go get you what you need.”

Ernie got out of the car. JC walked behind him into the store.

The travel sized toiletries were JC’s preference. They were small, cheap and easy to drag around. If carefully rationed, a few bottles could last him a month. Ernie looked on while JC made his selections, stocking up on deodorant, shampoo, shaving cream, razors, shampoo and soap. Ernie disappeared and came back with a few pairs of men’s socks that were on sale and a child’s backpack. It was better than the plastic bag he’d been using.

At the checkout counter, they stuffed everything into the backpack, including the plastic bag. As they walked back to the car, Ernie opened his wallet and pulled out two twenty dollar bills.

“I wish you would let someone help you. Since you won’t, take this. Use it for food or whatever.” Ernie’s voice was low. His eyes held a glint of something—guilt, perhaps. At the moment, the reasoning behind Ernie’s kindness and generosity wasn’t a concern. JC was grateful, and he had enough to make it on his own. For awhile, at least.

“Thanks,” JC mumbled, and took the cash. He tucked it away, safe and sound. “I appreciate it a lot, I really do. I’ll just uh…” He looked around. Yeah, he knew where he was. “I’ll just take off from here. I know you’re late.”

“Well, hey man. You sure you don’t want to come to my sister’s? She’s cooking tonight. I’ll drive you back afterwards.”

JC’s eyes narrowed. And how would Ernie introduce him? As his old friend from two jobs ago, who happened to be homeless, and that’s why he had a three week old bush of hair on his face and smelled like Ponce Avenue? He shook his head slowly. Ernie’s eyes dropped to the ground as if he could read JC’s mind.   

“Thanks for this,” he said, slipping his arms into the straps of the backpack. “I really do appreciate it, but I don’t want you to feel like you’re obligated. I got myself into this mess. Thanks again.”

He turned on his heel and took off in the opposite direction. From behind him, he heard the car engine start, then whine as Ernie put it in reverse and drove away. JC breathed a quiet sigh of relief to be alone again.

Whether it was luck or serendipity, things like that happened to him often— the girl at the shelter who took pity on his long, thin face and slight frame and gave him extra soup; the friends that sometimes cased the streets looking for him and seemed to be taking care of him from afar; the girl at the tree, with the offer of cold medication and a coat and a bottle of vodka.

He shouldn’t have been, but he was thinking about her. She threw him off and it unnerved him. It was her voice. The way she knew so much about living on the street, but obviously had a place to go at night. Her unusual offerings and naïve generosity—she’d given a homeless man her address. Who did stuff like that, these days?

He shouldn’t have been thinking about her. He had other, bigger problems to occupy his mind and his time. Like where he was sleeping that night.

But he was. Thinking about her. Part of him thought she was an angel and he’d never see her again. Part of him hoped that wasn’t true or even if it was, maybe she could be assigned to him.

*****

He had managed to score a bed at a shelter for a few nights, which saved him from potentially freezing to death, but since the temperature had risen to a more humane level, JC was outside once again.

He had to be hyper vigilant, even when he was sleeping. Having to be half awake and aware all night meant he didn’t get much sleep, so he awoke tired, had a bland breakfast and then was back out on the street. He wandered through his day, listless and not caring about much of anything.

It was during these times that JC couldn’t help but let the old days roll through his mind. He remembered a time when he lived a life with purpose. He would get up in the morning and go to work, maybe stop by McDonald’s on the way.  He had a job and a set of assigned tasks to complete and a desk and a phone and a computer with internet at his fingertips. He had a boss and coworkers and it was assumed that he got paid every two weeks. There was a vending machine into which he happily spilled his quarters for chips and pretzels and soda. After work, there was always a happy hour or, during the really good days, he could catch dinner with a girlfriend. Go see a movie. Or go home. A warm home that wasn’t anything special but it had rooms. And a couch. And a TV.

He missed TV. He missed wings and beer. And football. Ah, he missed football.  

JC wandered the streets without a destination in mind, missing his old life and his old problems.  Those were good days. He just didn’t know they were good days when he was living them.

As the sun began its descent, the temperature dipped drastically. He began his usual quest for a place to watch the evening turn into night, and later to lay his head until night turned to dawn and dawn turned to morning.

JC settled against a wall outside of the Golden Lantern Theater. It had a marquee, the kind with lights that chased each around the outside of the sign, except the Golden Lantern was run-down and decrepit. It only showed dollar movies and seemed to be popular among teenagers who never really watched the movie, but sat in the back of the theater drinking and shooting up, sharing needles and generally being loud. When a bulb blew out, no one fixed it. Now the sign looked like an open mouth with missing teeth.

He had been sitting against the wall for hours, watching foot traffic pass one way and car traffic pass another. The air was cool and crisp, but tolerable. He shoved his hands into the pocket of his jacket and once again, the unopened bottle of vodka tempted him. He pulled it out, held it in the palm of his hand and stared at it.

“Works better if you open it and pour it down your throat.”

He didn’t have to look up to know it was her. She must not have been one for invitations, because she sat down next to him, scooting back against the brick wall and folding her legs Indian style up under her.

“Hey.”

“Hey, yourself. You still got that bottle?”

“I guess I don’t drink.” He handed the bottle to her. She took it and slipped it into the pocket of her coat.  

“I stole it from the hotel I work at, anyway.”

JC laughed as his head turned quickly in her direction. It had been a long time since he’d actually laughed out loud. First she shows up out of the blue and then she makes him laugh. Angel, definitely.

“Stole it? You serious?”

“Yeah. I work at one of those high priced places downtown. The ones with the mini bar in the room. If you take a bottle, they charge you whether you drink it or not. So, if a guest leaves a bottle behind, I take it.” She shrugged.

“It’s not really stealing, then. More scavenging. I thought you meant you like…broke into a room and took it.”

“We’re supposed to turn them in, but whatever. I guess it’s not stealing, then. Whew,” she said, sarcastically brushing a hand across her brow. “I feel better. So I went back to the park to give you that coat but you were already gone.  Security run you off?”

He nodded.

“Damn. But you made it without me, I guess. No cough?”

He shook his head, smiling. “No cough. Must have just been the cold.”

“I half expected you to show up at my door, especially for the coat. Anyone else would have.”

JC stared ahead, chewing on his bottom lip. “I guess I’m not anyone else,” he said.

“Guess not,” she said. “So what’s your name?”

“JC.”

She giggled. He liked the sound. It was like a babbling brook, all high pitched and breathy. “Like as in Jesus Christ?”

“Like as in Joshua,” he said, his voice more stern than he intended. It softened a moment later when he said, “That joke isn’t funny. I’ve heard it all my life.”

“Touchy.” She drew her knees up toward her chin, her arms wrapped around her legs. “Alright then, not-Jesus Christ. What’s your story?”

He looked at her, noting her dark, disheveled hair pulled back into a ponytail and brown eyes and small nose. She was plain, but not unattractive. He hadn’t made much time for girls, out here. He didn’t have any money to spend on them. None of them seemed willing to spend any money on him, either. He wasn’t sure what was different about this girl, but he thought he might make some time for her.

“My story?”

“Yeah. How’s a guy like you, who looks pretty damn normal, end up sitting up against the Golden Lantern looking all lost and cold and shit?”

“I guess all kinds of people end up out here.”

“That’s what I’m saying, basically. How did you?”

“Long story. Don’t feel like telling it. Especially to a stranger.”  He unfolded his legs, stretching them out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. He was proud of his clean, almost white socks as they peeked out from the tattered hem of his jeans. “You go first.”

“Me? What do you want to know?”

“Same thing you asked me. Your name. What’s your story?”

She sighed and dug into her pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She shoved a cigarette between her lips and flicked the lighter until a flame licked the other end. She put the lighter and the cigarette away and blew a plume of acrid smoke into the air above them. 

“Sorry, did you want a smoke?”

He shook his head. “That stuff will kill you, you know.”

Smoke poured from her nose and mouth as she laughed. “You’re funny, not-Jesus Christ. You live anywhere, everywhere, nowhere, but you don’t smoke because cigarettes will kill you. You eat every meal at a shelter, you’ll sleep on a bench in the park when it’s almost zero degrees out, but you don’t drink or shoot up. Your socks are clean and so is your face.”

She grabbed one of his hands and peered at them before sucking in another puff of the cigarette. “And so are your hands, for the most part. You almost backed away from me when I said I stole that bottle of booze. You really think you belong out here?”

“You’re not the judge of who belongs out here. And how do you know all that? About me, I mean.”

She glared at him for a few seconds before her eyes dropped to the crumbling pavement. She looked as if she hadn’t meant to reveal that much detail. “How do you think?” she said, her attitude returning. “Been watching you.”

“Why?”

“Because you, not-Jesus Christ—“

“JC.”

“Fine. You, JC, intrigue me.”

“But… I mean… do you follow me around?” The thought of that was frightening. And embarrassing. He could only imagine the kinds of things he did when he thought no one was looking.

The girl flicked a column of ash from the end of her half smoked cigarette. “Used to,” she admitted. “And I have friends, like the girl you flirt with to get extra food at St Joseph’s. Her name is Hailey. I’ve got her keeping an eye on you. She tells me when you don’t show up. Then I look for you and make sure you’re out here somewhere. You never really go far.”

JC blushed, but only slightly and only for a few moments. “So I’m weird to you? Hundreds of people have nowhere to be, live on the wind and spend their days in a stupor, but I’m weird?”

“Yeah. Because you’re conscious. The hundreds of people you talk about, the ones that spend their days in a stupor? They do that on purpose. They don’t want to be conscious of this life they live. They want to live in the most painless way possible.”

She sucked her cigarette down to the filter and ground it out on the pavement next to her. “So, yeah. You’re kind of weird. Like me.”

“Oh, now I see.” JC nodded his head, smiling. “It’s the old we’re a lot alike ruse.”

“Not a ruse. I was weird for a long time. People don’t get why a clean and sober person would choose to live out here. They think people just end up out here.”

“But you said… I mean, you have a place, right? You’re not out here.”

She lifted her head, her chin proud and prominent. “Not anymore. But I’m only one step away from being back out here. That’s kind of why I noticed you. You’re weird like me.” She tipped her head and studied his profile for a few moments. “That’s why I think whatever you’ve got planned or whatever you’re working towards, you’re probably going to make it. You’re not going to end up like the hundreds of people with nowhere to be who live their lives in a stupor.”

His chin lowered to his chest, out of habit. Humility was all he had known for over a year. It took a lot of humility to make the choices he made, to accept the help when it came, and to realize a compliment when he heard one. He was hearing one. He didn’t know how to take it.

“Tell you what. I’m getting cold and this pavement is hard. My ass hurts.” She heaved herself up from the ground and stood in front of him. “Dumb question, but. Uh, do you want to come by?”

JC looked up at her. For the first time, she seemed nervous and a little bit shy.  

“I don’t have this fantastic view…” She turned, sweeping her arm in an arc. When she looked back at him, she was smiling. “But it’s warm and it’s not outside. I feel bad for not getting that coat to you the other night. And I feel like being nice to a weirdo.”

She wanted him to say yes. He really, really wanted to say yes. He couldn’t make his mouth open and say the word, though. So he just stared.

She shrugged. “Suit yourself. 621 State Street. Down this block, take a left and three blocks down. Standard Hotel. Welcome anytime.”

He nodded, inwardly kicking himself.   

She lingered for a moment, but when he didn’t change his mind, she backed away and started walking. He watched her until she turned the corner. And then she was gone.

He sat up against the wall for hours, contemplating their short conversation. It was pleasant, he guessed. Nice to talk to someone who seemed to understand. And someone who’d made her way off of the streets. And someone who didn’t hurl obscenities and other nonsense at him when he walked by. 

Car traffic slowed as the night wore on. Foot traffic crawled to standstill after the theater closed at 10pm.

And still, he sat up against the wall. Until he stood, and started walking. Down the block. To the left. Three blocks down.

The Standard Hotel was nothing more than a roach motel renovated -cheaply at that- into studio apartments. The rooms were tiny, the rent was too expensive for the area, but it beat sleeping on State Street itself. That this girl was able to get a room said a lot about her. At the very least, that she was working.

JC walked around the perimeter of the long, strip-mall like row of rooms, counting the numbers. 618… 619… 620… at 621 he stopped, took a deep breath, and rapped his knuckles on the door twice.

It opened almost immediately. The warmth of the room and the scent of something—soup maybe, rushed from the room in a blast of domestic comfort and hit him head on. In sweat pants, a t-shirt and bare feet, the girl stood in the doorway.

“You never told me your name.”