I looked at the drawing, then at her—her hair clean and brushed, her cheeks no longer hollow, her eyes holding a light that wasn’t there before.
One evening, six months later, she slid a new drawing across the table. It was the two of us, sitting side by side, the window open behind us, sunlight pouring in. Above our heads, she had written a single word in careful, looping letters: Life -Life With A Runaway Girl- -RJ01148030-
She learned that I worked too much, that I listened to old jazz records at a volume just above a whisper, and that I always left the hallway light on at night. I looked at the drawing, then at her—her
She flinched, pulling the hood of her jacket tighter. A single, wide eye, rimmed with red, peered out from the shadows. She couldn't have been more than sixteen. Her face was smudged with dirt, and her lower lip was split. Above our heads, she had written a single
I sighed, the cold air turning my breath to steam. “Look, I’m not a cop. I’m not a creep. I’m just… tired. And you look like you haven’t slept in a week.” I nodded toward the corner. “My apartment is two blocks up. It’s not much. But it has a heater that works and instant ramen that doesn’t.”
I didn’t ask questions. That was my rule. No Where are your parents? No What did you do? No Why are you running? I just left a clean towel outside the bathroom door, a bowl of rice and egg on the kotatsu table, and went to work.