Yeah. Sure. No worries,” David said. But some days, like today, David could use a hug himself.
Lorelei
SINCE SHE stepped off the bus in Austin, the weather had been unmercifully hot and dry. Drought was wearing on the city. Municipal fountains were shut down, a water source the homeless used to spot bathe and cool their tired feet. Irrigation was restricted, so landscaping provided less shade and camouflage. Every gust of wind swept up a whorl of dust, and some of the kids had taken to wearing bandanas over their faces, making the public walk an even wider swath around them.
City beat cops had started to patrol the creeks and wooded areas of town, looking for campfires. While most days were still hot, temperatures dropped at night. Mook's squat was one of many encampments building fires to knock the four a.m. chill.
Lorelei had grown accustomed to the unexpected appearance of cops in the middle of their squat. Mook never got defensive or seemed upset by their surprise arrivals. Often, he walked away into the trees to have a conversation with them. Once, Lorelei saw them show Mook pictures. She figured he told them about other street rats and in exchange they left him alone. While other squats were broken up and forced to move, Mook maintained a steady, enviable spot and a relatively hassle-free existence. It was one of the reasons Lorelei had joined his group.
But police had been cracking down on urban campfires. Even though both camping and fires were against city ordinances, the cops usually looked the other way unless there were complaints. The drought had made it more dangerous for surrounding neighborhoods. Anybody caught with a fire would be written up, and their camp would be torn apart. Before they left, the cops made the kids use their precious jugs of water to douse the glowing remains of the previous night.
Without fire, Lorelei needed a sleeping bag. The ground was still warm, but her thin blanket wasn't enough in the middle of the night. Other kids talked about the bone-chilling Texas nights to come. She had an idea of what to expect. She had camped in California desert. Sleeping bags were bulky and heavy and hard to hide, but she had put it off as long as she could.
Lorelei made her way to the drop-in, about half an hour's walk, a gradual uphill climb from Shoal Creek. She rested on the way, stopping to watch women in bright-white tennis suits play on a court at a fenced-in club.
It was early and the drop-in was nearly empty. David was in his closet-sized office, his face creased in deep concentration. She knocked and as he looked up, his expression changed. He always seemed glad to see her. If she didn't know better, she would swear he actually cared about her. He never picked her for information. He never pushed. It seemed as if David saw her as a real person.
There was only one sleeping bag in the supply room. It had a jagged rip along the bottom panel. When she told David she could mend it, he handed her two tiny hotel sewing kits. She pocketed a couple of batteries for her flashlight. She didn't take any canned or dehydrated food since she no longer had access to fire. She'd have to spange for fast-food money instead of living on the Ramen diet.
Lorelei had learned that if she arrived early enough, she could do laundry and shower in peace. She put her clothes in to wash, then took a long shower letting hot water prickle her face and back. She never felt clean, no matter how much she lathered and rinsed. It was as if something other than dirt and body odor clung to her skin, something that tainted her from the inside.
The drop-in didn't usually serve breakfast, but when she walked back to the lobby there were miniature boxes of cheerfully colored cereal scattered on the food table. Alongside those were small squat cartons of milk. Lorelei used a plastic spoon to punch through the perforated H-cut on the front of a box. She filled it with milk and shoveled the sickeningly sweet cereal into her
Lorelei
SINCE SHE stepped off the bus in Austin, the weather had been unmercifully hot and dry. Drought was wearing on the city. Municipal fountains were shut down, a water source the homeless used to spot bathe and cool their tired feet. Irrigation was restricted, so landscaping provided less shade and camouflage. Every gust of wind swept up a whorl of dust, and some of the kids had taken to wearing bandanas over their faces, making the public walk an even wider swath around them.
City beat cops had started to patrol the creeks and wooded areas of town, looking for campfires. While most days were still hot, temperatures dropped at night. Mook's squat was one of many encampments building fires to knock the four a.m. chill.
Lorelei had grown accustomed to the unexpected appearance of cops in the middle of their squat. Mook never got defensive or seemed upset by their surprise arrivals. Often, he walked away into the trees to have a conversation with them. Once, Lorelei saw them show Mook pictures. She figured he told them about other street rats and in exchange they left him alone. While other squats were broken up and forced to move, Mook maintained a steady, enviable spot and a relatively hassle-free existence. It was one of the reasons Lorelei had joined his group.
But police had been cracking down on urban campfires. Even though both camping and fires were against city ordinances, the cops usually looked the other way unless there were complaints. The drought had made it more dangerous for surrounding neighborhoods. Anybody caught with a fire would be written up, and their camp would be torn apart. Before they left, the cops made the kids use their precious jugs of water to douse the glowing remains of the previous night.
Without fire, Lorelei needed a sleeping bag. The ground was still warm, but her thin blanket wasn't enough in the middle of the night. Other kids talked about the bone-chilling Texas nights to come. She had an idea of what to expect. She had camped in California desert. Sleeping bags were bulky and heavy and hard to hide, but she had put it off as long as she could.
Lorelei made her way to the drop-in, about half an hour's walk, a gradual uphill climb from Shoal Creek. She rested on the way, stopping to watch women in bright-white tennis suits play on a court at a fenced-in club.
It was early and the drop-in was nearly empty. David was in his closet-sized office, his face creased in deep concentration. She knocked and as he looked up, his expression changed. He always seemed glad to see her. If she didn't know better, she would swear he actually cared about her. He never picked her for information. He never pushed. It seemed as if David saw her as a real person.
There was only one sleeping bag in the supply room. It had a jagged rip along the bottom panel. When she told David she could mend it, he handed her two tiny hotel sewing kits. She pocketed a couple of batteries for her flashlight. She didn't take any canned or dehydrated food since she no longer had access to fire. She'd have to spange for fast-food money instead of living on the Ramen diet.
Lorelei had learned that if she arrived early enough, she could do laundry and shower in peace. She put her clothes in to wash, then took a long shower letting hot water prickle her face and back. She never felt clean, no matter how much she lathered and rinsed. It was as if something other than dirt and body odor clung to her skin, something that tainted her from the inside.
The drop-in didn't usually serve breakfast, but when she walked back to the lobby there were miniature boxes of cheerfully colored cereal scattered on the food table. Alongside those were small squat cartons of milk. Lorelei used a plastic spoon to punch through the perforated H-cut on the front of a box. She filled it with milk and shoveled the sickeningly sweet cereal into her
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