Chapter One
Jasmine
I found my spot under the lamppost on Seventh Street just as the sun disappeared behind the buildings, the light above me already flickering in that unreliable way that meant it would probably die completely within the hour. The metal pole was cold against my cheek as I leaned into it, testing its stability. Good enough. My fingers, already stiff from the walk over, flexed inside my woolen gloves. I’d cut away the fingertips, so I could still feel the coins when people dropped them into my cup.
The cup itself was an old coffee container, the logo worn away to nothing but a ghost of what it had once been. I set it down on the concrete in front of me and adjusted the position twice before I was satisfied. Too close to the edge of the sidewalk, and someone might kick it over. Too far back and people wouldn’t notice it. There was a science to this, a geography of survival I'd mapped over three years of singing on street corners.
I pulled my coat tighter. I had three layers underneath it, everyone thinner than the last, like those Russian dolls that nested inside each other. The outermost layer was a men's peacoat I'd found behind a donation center, dark gray and missing two buttons. Underneath that, a fleece pullover with a coffee stain shaped like a handprint across the chest. Then, a thermal shirt that had once been white. My body underneath allof it felt small, compressed, like I was trying to take up as little space as possible.
The wind cut through the street, and I turned my face away from it, feeling the sting in my cheeks. February in Shaker City was cruel. It was the kind of cold that found its way through every gap in your clothing, every weakness in your defenses. I tucked my chin down and started humming, just warming up my voice, feeling the vibration in my chest.
I began softly. That was part of the performance, to start quiet enough that people had to stop to hear you, had to choose to listen. A low note, barely more than a whisper, something wordless and aching. My voice was the only thing I had left that worked the way it was supposed to. Everything else about me was broken or breaking, but my voice remained clear, true. It was the one gift nobody had taken from me.
The melody built slowly, like water rising. I let it grow note by note, adding texture and depth, pulling from somewhere deep in my chest where I kept all the things I couldn't say out loud. The song was mine; not something I'd learned from anyone else, but something that had formed itself inside me, shaped by loss, cold, and the particular rhythm of survival.
There were fragments of a story in it. The melody dipped low and mournful, carrying the weight of small hands I'd never had the chance to hold, the phantom sensation of flutters inside me I'd never feel again. Then it lifted, turned sharp and urgent, holding all the nights I'd spent running, all the times I'd hidden, all the moments I'd chosen to keep breathing when it would have been easier not to.
A woman walked past, slowed, and stopped. I felt her presence but didn't look directly at her. That was another rule: don't make eye contact, don't make them uncomfortable, let them feel generous without feeling obligated. She stood there for maybe thirty seconds, and then I heard the metallic clink ofcoins hitting the bottom of my cup. Two quarters and a dime, by the sound of it.
“Beautiful,” she said, her voice quiet, almost apologetic.
I nodded once and kept singing. She walked away quickly, as if she'd already spent too much time acknowledging my existence.
The traffic hummed in the distance, a constant drone of engines and tires on asphalt. Closer, I could hear the sharp click of heels, the heavy thud of work boots, and the shuffle of sneakers. I tracked each one without looking up, cataloging distances and trajectories. A man in a business suit passed on the far side of the sidewalk, his phone pressed to his ear. Two teenagers walked by laughing, their voices loud and careless. Neither stopped.
The air smelled like rain even though it wasn't falling yet— that particular metallic scent of wet concrete and ozone. Underneath it, the sharper smell of exhaust and something organic rotting in an alley nearby. City smells. I'd stopped noticing most of them, but on frosty nights like this they became sharper, more present.
I shifted my weight from my left foot to my right, felt the throb in my ankle where I'd twisted it last week stepping off a curb wrong. The pain was manageable, just a dull ache that reminded me to be careful. Everything reminded me to be careful.
Another clink in the cup. This time I glanced up briefly, just long enough to see an older man walking away, his shoulders hunched against the wind. The song changed under my breath, following a different thread, something that held the memory of kindness without trust. Because kindness from strangers was a temporary thing, a moment that didn't obligate them to anything beyond the coins they dropped.
I watched a couple approach from the north, walking close together, his arm around her shoulders. They were laughing about something, their faces open and unguarded in a way that made my chest tighten. I looked away before they reached me, letting my eyes unfocus on the pavement. They passed without stopping, but I heard their laughter fade slowly down the street.
The lamppost flickered above me, steadied, then flickered again. In the brief darkness, I felt a figure stop several feet away. My song faltered, just for a fraction of a second, before I caught it and kept going. But my heart had already started beating faster. I didn't look up. Didn't need to. There was a particular quality to the attention of someone who was really watching, not just glancing as they passed.
Thirty seconds. A minute. Sweat formed on the back of my neck despite the cold. My fingers trembled slightly, and I pressed them against my thigh to steady them. The figure didn't move closer, dropped nothing in my cup, just stood there listening.
I clutched my coat tighter, pulling the fabric across my chest like armor. The song was still coming, but I'd lost the thread of it, and was just following muscle memory now, hitting notes without feeling them. My throat felt tight. I wanted to stop, to run, but I forced myself to keep singing. Running drew attention. Running made you prey.
Finally... the figure moved on, footsteps retreating into the general noise of the street. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, and my shoulders dropped slightly. False alarm. Just someone who'd stopped to listen longer than most.
I repositioned myself, angling my body so I was deeper in the shadow cast by the lamppost. Better. Less visible but still present enough that people would see the cup, would hear the song. It was a delicate balance, being seen enough to earn coins, but not seen so much that I became a target.
The cold was settling into my bones now, the kind of deep chill that would take hours to shake even after I crawled into my tent. I shifted again, trying to keep blood flowing to my feet. Frostbite was a real danger; I'd seen other street singers lose toes to it, their feet black and dead by the time they made it to a clinic.
My voice was tiring, the high notes taking more effort. It was almost time to stop. Another ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Just a little longer. Just a few more coins to add to the collection, to bring me closer to the amount I needed for tomorrow's meal, for the fee the encampment charged for space, for the slow accumulation of small survivals that added up to one more day.
I closed my eyes and sang.
When I opened them, I noticed a car from down the street had driven closer, a sleek black shape idling at the curb thirty feet away. Its engine was so quiet I only caught the low purr of it during the pauses between my phrases. It was expensive. The kind of car that didn't belong on this street, where the other vehicles were rusted sedans and dented trucks held together with prayers and duct tape.
I kept singing, but my attention had split now, part of me tracking the melody while another part stayed hyperaware of that black car. The way its windows were too dark to see through, the way it just sat there, not moving, not leaving. The hair on the back of my neck prickled.
Then the scent hit me.
It cut through the cold air and the city smells like a blade, rich, woody and unmistakable. Oak. Old oak, the kind that had been growing for decades, solid and deep and overwhelming. My lungs constricted around it, and I felt my next note crack, splintering into something that wasn't quite a sound.
Alpha.
