her scanty belongings, then sat on the bed with the faded chintz spread to count her money. It was going far too quickly. She hadn’t bought much: the bag of nuts, a burger and a Coke, and a copy of the
Globe
so she could look at the classified ads. But she’d paid in advance for a week in this lovely establishment, and the fifty-dollar-a-night room charge had eaten up a significant chunk of her meager stash. By her calculations, she could stay here for seven or eight nights—depending on how much, and how often, she ate—before she ran out of money.
There had to be other options. Cleaner, cheaper options. The YWCA, for instance. Maybe a youth hostel. She wasn’t about to go near the runaway shelters. In the first place, she hadn’t run away; she’d simply left home to start living her own life. Second, the homeless shelters would probably be the first place Aunt Sarah looked for her.
Assuming her aunt even bothered to look.
It was a shame she couldn’t stay indefinitely here in this dump, because it was the last place on earth anybody would expect to find her. She would never have discovered the Sir Charles herself if she hadn’t asked some guy who was panhandling on a street corner where she could find the cheapest hotel in the neighborhood. She’d dropped fifty cents in his cup, and he’d given her directions.
There was no phone in her room, so she bundled up and walked over to North Station, where she miraculously found a pay phone that not only worked, but actually had a phone book attached. She bought a steaming cup of watery cocoa at McDonald’s, got some change from the cute guy behind the counter, and began making phone calls.
It was a waste of time. She called every youth hostel in the phone book and got the same song and dance from each of them: staying there required a paid membership, and then you still had to pay a nightly fee on top of that. It was a big rip-off. The Y was even worse; the nightly room rates were nearly as high as some of the downtown hotels. So much for that brilliant idea.
But it wasn’t the end of the world. She was young and strong and smart. For the next few nights at least, she had a roof over her head. It might not be the Waldorf, but her room was heated and the shower worked. The classified section of the
Globe
was huge. In a city the size of Boston, there were thousands of jobs. Tonight, she would read the want ads with pen in hand, circling the ones that showed the most promise. In the morning, she’d visit the theater district first. If nothing panned out there, she’d start following up on some of the ads she’d circled. Even if she had to wait tables for a living, she would get by.
“Good afternoon,” Sarah said to the nineteen-year-old who’d come out of the back room when she asked to speak to the manager. “How are y’all doing?” He was tall and gangly, with a severe case of acne, and looked as though he should be playing high school basketball instead of managing the neighborhood 7-Eleven. But the kid wore a tie and a big plastic name tag that said Manager, so it looked like he was her man.
“I’m Sarah Connelly,” she continued, “and my niece is missing.” She held up a copy of the flyer, and the kid stared unblinking at Kit’s photo, like a reptile sleeping in the sun. “Her name is Kit. She’s sixteen years old, and very pretty. Have you seen her?”
“Nope.”
He possessed all the animation of a corpse, and she was tempted to shake him just to make sure he was alive. Instead, she smiled sweetly and said, “I’d like your permission to post this in your front window.”
“Uh… ” He glanced around as though expecting the answer to drop out of the sky. “Yeah, okay. I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”
Trying to forget that kids like this were tomorrow’s leaders, she taped the flyer in a conspicuous place near the front door. Back out on the street, the afternoon had grown cold as the sun sank deeper in the western sky. Sarah
Globe
so she could look at the classified ads. But she’d paid in advance for a week in this lovely establishment, and the fifty-dollar-a-night room charge had eaten up a significant chunk of her meager stash. By her calculations, she could stay here for seven or eight nights—depending on how much, and how often, she ate—before she ran out of money.
There had to be other options. Cleaner, cheaper options. The YWCA, for instance. Maybe a youth hostel. She wasn’t about to go near the runaway shelters. In the first place, she hadn’t run away; she’d simply left home to start living her own life. Second, the homeless shelters would probably be the first place Aunt Sarah looked for her.
Assuming her aunt even bothered to look.
It was a shame she couldn’t stay indefinitely here in this dump, because it was the last place on earth anybody would expect to find her. She would never have discovered the Sir Charles herself if she hadn’t asked some guy who was panhandling on a street corner where she could find the cheapest hotel in the neighborhood. She’d dropped fifty cents in his cup, and he’d given her directions.
There was no phone in her room, so she bundled up and walked over to North Station, where she miraculously found a pay phone that not only worked, but actually had a phone book attached. She bought a steaming cup of watery cocoa at McDonald’s, got some change from the cute guy behind the counter, and began making phone calls.
It was a waste of time. She called every youth hostel in the phone book and got the same song and dance from each of them: staying there required a paid membership, and then you still had to pay a nightly fee on top of that. It was a big rip-off. The Y was even worse; the nightly room rates were nearly as high as some of the downtown hotels. So much for that brilliant idea.
But it wasn’t the end of the world. She was young and strong and smart. For the next few nights at least, she had a roof over her head. It might not be the Waldorf, but her room was heated and the shower worked. The classified section of the
Globe
was huge. In a city the size of Boston, there were thousands of jobs. Tonight, she would read the want ads with pen in hand, circling the ones that showed the most promise. In the morning, she’d visit the theater district first. If nothing panned out there, she’d start following up on some of the ads she’d circled. Even if she had to wait tables for a living, she would get by.
“Good afternoon,” Sarah said to the nineteen-year-old who’d come out of the back room when she asked to speak to the manager. “How are y’all doing?” He was tall and gangly, with a severe case of acne, and looked as though he should be playing high school basketball instead of managing the neighborhood 7-Eleven. But the kid wore a tie and a big plastic name tag that said Manager, so it looked like he was her man.
“I’m Sarah Connelly,” she continued, “and my niece is missing.” She held up a copy of the flyer, and the kid stared unblinking at Kit’s photo, like a reptile sleeping in the sun. “Her name is Kit. She’s sixteen years old, and very pretty. Have you seen her?”
“Nope.”
He possessed all the animation of a corpse, and she was tempted to shake him just to make sure he was alive. Instead, she smiled sweetly and said, “I’d like your permission to post this in your front window.”
“Uh… ” He glanced around as though expecting the answer to drop out of the sky. “Yeah, okay. I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”
Trying to forget that kids like this were tomorrow’s leaders, she taped the flyer in a conspicuous place near the front door. Back out on the street, the afternoon had grown cold as the sun sank deeper in the western sky. Sarah
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