20
Mary
The bus stop bench is burning throughhisshirt like a griddle.
I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes, watching buses pull up and leave without me. Watching people get on with their normal lives… purses, phones, shoes. Basic human accessories I apparently no longer qualify for.
My feet are already blistering. The asphalt in Vegas doesn’t mess around, and I’m learning that lesson one raw blister at a time.
A woman in scrubs glances at me, then looks away fast. Like maybe crazy is contagious.
I don’t blame her.
I’m wearing a man’s white button-down shirt that goes to my knees, gray sweat shorts that are barely hanging on by a drawstring, and nothing else. No bra. No shoes. No dignity.
I look exactly like what I am: a woman who ran for her life and didn’t think to grab the essentials first.
Smart, Mary. Real smart.
A bus pulls up. Route 15. I know it goes toward The Strip, toward civilization. The doors hiss open, and the driver looks at me expectantly.
“You getting on?”
I open my mouth. Close it.
“I… I don’t have money.”
His expression shifts from impatient to suspicious. “Then why are you at a bus stop?”
Good question. Why am I at a bus stop? Why am I anywhere?
What’s the plan here, Mary?
“Sorry,” I mumble, standing up too fast. My head spins. “Sorry, I’m… sorry.”
The doors hiss shut, and the bus pulls away, taking my last shred of hope with it.
Think. Think.
Essie.
Essie works at the Bellagio in the housekeeping department. If I can get there, find her, maybe she can help. Maybe she has a phone I can borrow, maybe she can—
Do what? Call who? The police?
After what just happened, I’m not sure I trust anyone.
But Essie’s good people. Tough. She’s survived Vegas for twenty years, raising a kid alone. If anyone knows how to handle a crisis, it’s her.
I start walking.
The sun feels as if it has a vendetta against my specific skin. By the time I’ve gone two blocks, the shirt is sticking to me like a second layer, and my feet are screaming protests I can’t afford to listen to.
But I keep walking.
Because what else is there to do?
A diner catches my attention—mostly because it has air conditioning and I can see a TV through the window. Local news is playing, and something about the reporter’s serious expression makes my stomach clench.
