I was hungry, and not just for food. I wanted company and friendship and the touch of a real, live girl. I kissed her back. It felt good.
There was a noise behind me. A man came out of the bushes, reached around my neck, and squeezed, lifting me off the ground. I smelled bad breath.
“Got him,” said the man.
“Good,” she said.
Barbara, if that was her name, reached into my pocket and pulled out the coins. She checked the other pockets, found my wallet, and opened it. There was a library card, the photo of Sister’s grave, a wildwood flower pressed in waxed paper, but no money. Dropping the wallet, she took my pack and looked inside. She found my pocketknife, then shouldered the pack.
“Don’t take it,” I gasped. “There’s nothing valuable.”
“We’ll decide that,” said Barbara.
“Check his shoes,” said the man.
My heart sank. I wondered how he knew. It didn’t take long to figure out. Bill’s trick might fool the bulls, but hoboes knew.
Barbara yanked off my shoes and took the money.
“Think you’re smart, huh?” she said.
She straightened up, opened the knife, and grabbed me by the throat. “Don’t follow us. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t breathe a word. We’ll kill you.”
Up close, her eyes were flat and dead. Her hands were rough. Her grip was strong, and the knife was sharp. She touched the tip of it to my neck, and I felt a drop of blood trickle down to my shirt.
She said, “Close your eyes. Count to fifty. This never happened.”
The man released me. I did as she said. When I opened my eyes, they were gone.
My knees felt weak, and I sank to the ground. I touched my neck. My fingers came away red. I was frightened, but it was more than that. What had just happened? A kiss had turned to blood, comfort to pain, daydream to nightmare. Daddy had always said the line between heaven and hell was just a thread, and it seemed he was right.
How could she do that? I had saved her, hadn’t I? Suddenly I realized the answer. I hadn’t saved Barbara; I had saved the man who’d been holding her. Barbara’s friend had probably been crouched behind a bush, waiting to strike. By chasing off the first man, I had spared him. He still had his pack, if not his pride.
I picked up the wallet and put it back in my pocket. My pack was gone, containing clothes, a toothbrush, a few bandages. All of it was important to me but useless to them. It would end up scattered by the road. Even worse, my money was gone. I was in a strange town, far from home, with nothing but the clothes on my back.
I was cold and hungry. My pack had been the closest thing to a home, and now I really was homeless. Not knowing what else to do, I went back to the campfire. The flames were dying out, and people had drifted away. Curling up near the embers, I fell into a restless sleep.
***
I woke up to shouts in the distance. It wasn’t just one person; it was a crowd, and the sound got closer by the minute, moving through the camp. Among the trees, I saw the glint of flashlights and heard the barking of dogs.
The police had come.
“Get up!” they yelled. “Get out!”
I scrambled to my feet just as a young officer approached. “We’re not hurting anyone,” I told him.
“Just doing what I have to.”
“Me too.”
“Get your things,” he said.
“I don’t have any.”
He blinked, and I left. I climbed a maple tree beyond the camp and hid in the branches until the police and dogs had swept the area clean, if that’s the word for it. The empty camp looked like a trash heap.
When the sun rose, my stomach ached from hunger. I made my way up the hill again and into town, but this time I didn’t stop at Jackson Street. I had noticed some big houses farther up the hill. The first one I came to was a tall, yellow structure with two chimneys and a grand entrance. A garage was in back, but I didn’t see a car. I noticed tall grass and weeds in the yard, and up close, I noticed the paint was peeling.
I ventured up the steps to the porch and the big front door. I lifted the brass knocker and gave a few taps. The sound rang out. I waited, then knocked again and waited again.
No one answered, so I did what Bill had told me hoboes do—I went to the back door. I knocked, this time with my knuckles. The door opened a crack, and a woman’s eye appeared. It was bright blue, with wrinkles around it. The eye blinked and the door opened.
The woman must have been seventy years old. She wore the kind of old-fashioned robe they called a wrapper, with a knit cap on her head and fuzzy slippers, which explained why I hadn’t heard her coming. She had a kind face and a welcoming smile.
“Thank you for opening the door,” I said. “I was just wondering if you could spare some food. Table scraps, anything.”
She studied me. “You’re filthy. You need food. Would you like to come in?”
On the train, Bill had told me about handouts. He said they fell into three categories. A lump was food in a bag, which you had to take somewhere else. A knee-shaker was food on a tray, so you could eat sitting on the back step. And a sit-down, the rarest of all handouts, was food at the table, when you were invited inside. This would be a sit-down, on my very first try.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, trying not to sound too eager. “Could I?”
“Not if you keep standing there.”