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Authors: Jessica Warman
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ahead of me, maybe more. I’ve made a terrible mistake.
The house seems to breathe as I take a few unsteady steps backward. The walls appear to tilt inward, like they might fold down upon me. There are noises everywhere: in the ceiling, the floors, outside and upstairs and beneath me. What the hell am I doing here? What if I’m not alone?
My fingers and toes are numb with panic. I’m afraid my knees will buckle as I start to run upstairs, frantic to get out of the house, but somehow I manage to make it all the way onto the street and into my car.
I lock all the doors and fumble with my key, forcing it into the ignition, pressing my foot so hard against the gas pedal that my tires squeal when I pull away from the curb. I’m almost to the highway when I realize that I left the front door to the house hanging open with my key in the lock.
I don’t think about where I’m going as I speed away from Pennsylvania Avenue; it’s like my hands steer the wheel automatically, my subconscious somehow directing me to a place where I might feel safe. Eventually I calm down enough to realize where I’m headed. I don’t know where else to go, not right now. If anyone can help me at all, maybe it’s Robin.
His home—it’s actually half a duplex—is in a section of Greensburg known as Friendship. Nestled in between the railroad tracks and a patch of undeveloped land, the area is not the cheerful place that its name suggests. The streets are nearly deserted this early on a Sunday morning, and what little activity there is makes me even more uneasy than I was to begin with. The neighborhood is supposedly working on improving its image, but it’s not quite there yet. At the bus stop next to a supermarket, a homeless man sleeps soundly, his body only partway covered by a child’s filthy comforter embroidered with a scene from Winnie the Pooh. Farther down the street, just before I make a left onto Willow Circle, there’s a block of commercial buildings, each entrance protected by metal gates meant to keep people from smashing the windows. The stores appear rundown and sketchy, offering services like paycheck advances, cash for gold, rental furniture, and used computers starting at $19.99.
As I come to a stop at the red light before my turn, a lone little girl makes her way down the street. She looks like she can’t be older than nine or ten. She’s pushing a shopping cart filled with small cardboard boxes. Their sides are stamped with the contradiction FRESH FROZEN FRIED FISH.
I don’t know what prompts me to pull up beside her and open my window. Maybe it’s because I know how it feels to be alone with nobody to help me, faced with a task no child should ever have to take on by herself.
“Hey. Do you need a ride, sweetie?” I smile at her.
She stops, looks up and down the empty street, then fixes me with a cool stare and raises a single eyebrow. “I don’t need nothing,” she says. “I’m good.”
I force a deep breath, discomfort only halfway filling my lungs as the struggle to fully breathe remains persistent. I should leave her alone. I have more important things to do.
But then she stands up straight and wraps her arms around her skinny body as she shivers, rubbing herself for warmth. I can’t leave her out here alone. I won’t.
“Where do you need to go with those boxes? You shouldn’t be walking around by yourself.” And I smile again, trying to seem safe and friendly. “It’s okay, really. I just want to help you.”
She hesitates. Her gaze lingers on the Porsche, so out of place in this neighborhood. “I only gotta go a little bit farther,” she says.
I shake my head. “That’s okay. I’ll take you.”
She taps a foot against the pavement. All of a sudden, behind her, an ungated storefront called CHINA TASTE becomes illuminated. When the lights come on, the girl is immediately standing before a backdrop of decadent squalor. Inside the building, its windows big enough that I can see
The house seems to breathe as I take a few unsteady steps backward. The walls appear to tilt inward, like they might fold down upon me. There are noises everywhere: in the ceiling, the floors, outside and upstairs and beneath me. What the hell am I doing here? What if I’m not alone?
My fingers and toes are numb with panic. I’m afraid my knees will buckle as I start to run upstairs, frantic to get out of the house, but somehow I manage to make it all the way onto the street and into my car.
I lock all the doors and fumble with my key, forcing it into the ignition, pressing my foot so hard against the gas pedal that my tires squeal when I pull away from the curb. I’m almost to the highway when I realize that I left the front door to the house hanging open with my key in the lock.
I don’t think about where I’m going as I speed away from Pennsylvania Avenue; it’s like my hands steer the wheel automatically, my subconscious somehow directing me to a place where I might feel safe. Eventually I calm down enough to realize where I’m headed. I don’t know where else to go, not right now. If anyone can help me at all, maybe it’s Robin.
His home—it’s actually half a duplex—is in a section of Greensburg known as Friendship. Nestled in between the railroad tracks and a patch of undeveloped land, the area is not the cheerful place that its name suggests. The streets are nearly deserted this early on a Sunday morning, and what little activity there is makes me even more uneasy than I was to begin with. The neighborhood is supposedly working on improving its image, but it’s not quite there yet. At the bus stop next to a supermarket, a homeless man sleeps soundly, his body only partway covered by a child’s filthy comforter embroidered with a scene from Winnie the Pooh. Farther down the street, just before I make a left onto Willow Circle, there’s a block of commercial buildings, each entrance protected by metal gates meant to keep people from smashing the windows. The stores appear rundown and sketchy, offering services like paycheck advances, cash for gold, rental furniture, and used computers starting at $19.99.
As I come to a stop at the red light before my turn, a lone little girl makes her way down the street. She looks like she can’t be older than nine or ten. She’s pushing a shopping cart filled with small cardboard boxes. Their sides are stamped with the contradiction FRESH FROZEN FRIED FISH.
I don’t know what prompts me to pull up beside her and open my window. Maybe it’s because I know how it feels to be alone with nobody to help me, faced with a task no child should ever have to take on by herself.
“Hey. Do you need a ride, sweetie?” I smile at her.
She stops, looks up and down the empty street, then fixes me with a cool stare and raises a single eyebrow. “I don’t need nothing,” she says. “I’m good.”
I force a deep breath, discomfort only halfway filling my lungs as the struggle to fully breathe remains persistent. I should leave her alone. I have more important things to do.
But then she stands up straight and wraps her arms around her skinny body as she shivers, rubbing herself for warmth. I can’t leave her out here alone. I won’t.
“Where do you need to go with those boxes? You shouldn’t be walking around by yourself.” And I smile again, trying to seem safe and friendly. “It’s okay, really. I just want to help you.”
She hesitates. Her gaze lingers on the Porsche, so out of place in this neighborhood. “I only gotta go a little bit farther,” she says.
I shake my head. “That’s okay. I’ll take you.”
She taps a foot against the pavement. All of a sudden, behind her, an ungated storefront called CHINA TASTE becomes illuminated. When the lights come on, the girl is immediately standing before a backdrop of decadent squalor. Inside the building, its windows big enough that I can see
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