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about the latest troubles on the street. He says there’s been a lot of crime, with thugs targeting the homeless, beating them, and stealing their paltry collection of things. He also complains that the police want to clear out the encampments so there will be nowhere left to sleep.  
    “Winter’s coming anyway,” he grumbles, his lips greasy with oil. “I’ll have to suck it up at the shelters anyway.” He gives me an affectionate smile. “The only thing that matters to me is that you’ve sorted yourself out and are safe. Streets ain’t no place for a smart young girl like my Mickey.”  
    “They’re no place for you, either, old man,” I insist. “Have you considered getting in touch with your son? He might help you.”  
    Captain shrugs, focusing his attention on picking the chicken bone clean. “Ain’t no son of mine. Just leave it be.” He falls silent for a moment, lost in thought. Then he looks over at me. “I want you to listen to me, Mickey. The world don’t owe you nuthin’. It don’t owe anybody nuthin’. The world plain out don’t care. If you let them break you, ain’t nobody steppin’ in for nuthin’ but to take your place. You be the tough girl I know. You fight for your place. And don’t never let the bastards get you down.”  
    “I won’t, bub,” I smile tenderly. I know about how his own son turned his back when Captain had some mental troubles and went into financial ruin. He knows how much darker the darkness feels when it’s close to home. Our pasts and our pains are different, but they’re both brutal. And no one understands me better than Captain.  
    “And so I ask you this one favor,” he says, holding a dirt-encrusted finger in the air. “I ain’t asked you for nuthin’ before so I hope you don’t mind.”  
    I fish a napkin from my backpack and reach over to wipe the grease from his beard. “Whatever you want, Captain.”  
    He nods and gives me an earnest look. “All I ask, darlin’, is that you go out there and knock their goddamned socks off.”

Chapter Six

    I arrive at the office at exactly nine. My stomach is full of butterflies and I feel short of breath from nervousness. I tried to cobble together the most professional outfits I could from what I’ve been carrying around since high school, but it wasn’t easy. This morning I settled on a pair of black cords, a loose, flowered blouse, and my brown Hush Puppies shoes. It would be the world’s greatest understatement to say that I’m hardly a glamour queen.  
    The receptionist is already behind the desk fielding calls and primly sipping a cappuccino. When I walk through the door he looks up at me and frowns. I don’t know what to do or where to go, so I just linger in the waiting area until he’s off the phone. He speaks into his Madonna headset in a low voice and watches me walk around the room like an idiot, pretending to admire the innovative design and the ultramodern chairs.  
    “Can I help you?” he says at last, looking right at me.  
    “Yes,” I say, “It’s my first…”  
    But he shakes his head and shoos his hand at me. *Not you, stupid. I’m not talking to you.* It feels like forever before he finally clears his throat to get my attention.  
    “What do you need?” He raises his eyebrows and looks at me, but I don’t want to fall for it again. His lips are tightly pursed as he waits for a response.  
    “Are you talking to me this time?” I ask.  
    He rolls his eyes. “Well, of course I’m talking to you. What do you need?”  
    The voice in my head shouts: *You see! I told you! A homeless loser like you doesn’t belong in an uptown, globally renowned place like this! Miss Thing here confirms it.* But I ignore it. I’ve heard that stupid voice ever since moving to Boulder for college, where everyone drives a nice car and has a big dog for their big yards. It’s the home of rich people and super-rich people.  
    Unfortunately, wrangling with that inner