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Halifax, May 9
4:01 a.m.
With caution, the hooker regarded the car as it stopped in front of her. Its tinted glass made it hard to see inside. The rumble of exhaust seemed to work right through her.
Instinctively, she dipped a hand into her purse. The canister of pepper spray that she touched gave her a sense of reassurance.
When the passenger window lowered, a young man with lank, black hair peered out at her. He was maybe twenty years old. His face was long and angular, pale and wasted. His eyes were glassy.
The woman took a step back when she sniffed the pungent scent of hashish spilling out of the car. All at once the young man’s face suddenly disappeared before her, transforming into the haggard face of her younger sister, Cathy. Images shot across the hooker’s mind—Cathy slumped unconscious over a toilet, a syringe hanging from the crook of her arm; the wail of sirens; the EHS paramedics rushing her out on a stretcher; Cathy lying in a hospital bed, feeble, shaking, tubes in her body; then later, Cathy’s ravaged eyes staring up, her palsied fingertips on her older sister’s arm as she struggled to speak.
“I’ll never do drugs again.”
The hooker winced.
If only I could believe that, she thought.
The slurred voice of the young man cut through her thoughts. “Hey, baby. How much?”
The woman blinked. She noticed a twenty-dollar bill in the man’s hand. Since her job was fraught with danger, she always made a point of examining the occupants of any vehicle before getting in. She bent over and looked at the driver. Another young man with short brown hair. He sat forward with a fixed, aimless gaze to his eyes. A shadowy figure moved in the backseat, the silhouette of a hash pipe to the person’s lips. Whether the figure was male or female, she couldn’t tell and it didn’t matter.
There was no way she would get into this car.
“Move along, boys,” she said.
“Oh, c’mon baby,” whined the young man. “Come a little closer.” He flicked his tongue in the air. “I want to taste you.”
She flushed. Her fingers curled around the canister of pepper spray. Ignoring him, she looked down Barrington Street toward the lights of the city’s core.
“I have money.” The man waved the twenty. “How much for a blowjob? Are you worth it?”
From the backseat, she heard laughter. Another male, she realized at that point. Her face tightened with anger. In one fluid motion, she brought out the canister of pepper spray and aimed it at the young man, her finger ready on the actuator. She willed her hand not to shake.
“I said move along,” she hissed.
The young man snapped his head back, his eyes wide.
“Take it easy.” He raised his hands, as if in mock surrender. “We’ll leave. No harm done.”
“Move,” the woman repeated.
“Fuck this,” the driver muttered.
With a squeal of tires, the car sped away. The hooker expelled a sigh. Watching the taillights, she put the canister of pepper spray back inside her purse. Then she lit another cigarette to calm her nerves.
Headlights flashed on the street. She turned her head to see another vehicle approaching. A pickup this time.
Smoking, the hooker watched it stop at the curb three feet from her. She saw a man inside reach across the seat for the window crank. Then she heard a voice, soft and warm, say, “Hello there.”
She flipped the cigarette to the sidewalk. Its tip glowed orange on the concrete. Gingerly, she took a step forward, one hand on the door, the other on her purse. She bent, examining the man inside with a contemptuous quiet.
“Looking for something?” she asked.
