Covers

Chapter One: Faded Tattoos

I really need to get rid of this carpet.

I love pastels. Blush pinks, cloud yellows, mint greens, baby blues. They make the space feel so open and bright. I almost feel like I can float in my studio apartment, propelled by the sweet energy of the furniture and décor in here.

At least until I look down at the carpet.

It's a remnant of a time before my parents were alive. I don't understand how no one has ever realized that this place would be much improved by removing the thick, dark brown, flattened fur covering the floor of the studio. I want to replace it with bright white tiles. Pale wood, maybe. Or if the landlord insists on keeping carpet, I would pay the cost myself to at least replace it with a white or a light brown.

I imagine how great this place would look. I do it often. I think I've almost convinced my landlord to let me do it. I've lived here for three years and I'll likely live here for three more while I finish my degree.

I bundle up for the weather. Beanie, scarf, purse. I pass Ms. Harper's door on my way down the hallway to the stairs.

"Where are you going so late? It's cold out!" she protests, looking at me sternly through her screen door.

Ms. Harper has inserted herself as a sort of maternal figure in my life. She's nosy and bossy, but I like her. She frequently gives me "extra" food she cooks and is always down for a game of chess. She's about sixty, but doesn't look a day over forty. She tells me that her secret is coconut oil. I've seen her rub a thin layer into her dark skin and soak her gorgeous curls in it. Because of it, she always smells fantastic.

I pause atop the stairs. "I volunteered for the dinner shift at the Mission."

She gives me a refreshed version of her stern look. "Don't kill yourself trying to save others, girl."

I smile. "Never, Ms. Harper."

I head down the stairs and out the door. The Portland night is indeed near freezing. The cold wind pushes against my cheeks and hands. I walk down to the TriMet stop as I see the bus from down the block. I lean against the rain shelter and smile as I watch the blue, white and yellow behemoth barreling down the street toward me. It looks like a brilliant beacon cruising through the old buildings and highrises of downtown Portland. It reminds me of Santa's sleigh.

I wave at the driver as he stops in front of me.

"Hey, Audrey! How are you?" Mr. Nelson asks as I walk up the steps.

"Good, sir, how are you?" I ask, swiping my card as I give him a smile. "Keeping warm?"

He chuckles. He's always chuckling. I think it's because he's in his fifties or so, and has a lifetime of memories to charm him. My Christmas excitement is furthered by the red beanie and thick white beard he happily dons. "Yes, I am! You?"

"I'm trying," I say sweetly as I take my seat near the front. It's just a five minute's bus ride to the Mission. I could walk, but I don't like doing it in the dark. In this more residential chunk of downtown, there are fewer people barhopping and this loneliness makes the shadows seem much darker. If someone wanted to, it would be laughably easy to grab me and pull me into a building or an alley for whatever purposes they pleased.

I don't like these thoughts. They're the product of my father's stern warnings about the evils of urban life. I don't think of things like this myself. I like to trust people. Take precautions, sure, because I recognize that most people don't deserve my trust, but the beauty and culture of Portland has a mesmerizing effect on me. I can't imagine living anywhere else.

Mr. Nelson stops in front of the Mission. I smile a thank-you as I head out, along with a few others from further back in the bus. This shelter only allows men to stay, but everyone is welcome for the meals. We feed lots of people every day. More than we should have to. Especially now, in the middle of the month, when people begin to spend through their foodstamps and need a way to feed their kids.