Sarah. She had made it on her own. Lived, loved, raised her son, held a job, cooked meals. Adult. Responsible. Led a healthy life. Sarah would show me how. She was a good person, a kind person. She had helped me once; she would save me now.

Sarah. The very thought of her swarthy, part-Indian, maybe part-­Oriental, complexion, and her broad, straight teeth in a big unself-­conscious smile, was enough to make me sit up straight. She had everything I wanted. She had feelings, she had love. She had friends, and knew how to be a friend. She had family—a son. I wanted a son someday; I wanted a place of my own filled with bright colors and patterns and light. Fresh air. I wanted a stove and a singing teapot. I wanted a job and a car and a way to help strangers in need.

I looked at Rosemary, hooked over the steering wheel like a little bird. I didn’t always want to be the one who needed help.

My legs ached.

The miles rolled by and so did the hours. Eventu­ally patches of city lights began to shine down on me, curled up on the car seat, holding my knees. Rose­mary made a series of turns. The streetlights slid in different patterns across the seat. Then we stopped. She turned off the engine, and the silence was a friend. Her cool hand touched my forehead.

“Wait right here and I’ll send someone out for you,” she said, then left, slamming the door behind her. A few moments later, a big Indian man opened the door and lifted me out, carried me effortlessly and silently up an old wooden stairway and through a door that Rosemary held open. The room smelled musty, old. It was a pleasant smell—dry and warm. He lay me on a sagging bed, then took cash from her and grunted as he left.

The bedspread beneath me had once been yellow chenille, but was now faded and stained. I shivered and rubbed my arms in semi-­conscious misery, look­ing around at the peeling wall­paper, then looked at Rosemary as she locked the door and began to take off her coat. Her eyes shone like ball bearings.

“A little Christmas present, Angelina. Just a little Christmas present for an old lady, for an old, old lady.” She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled wet strands of hair from my feverish, perspiring forehead. “An old lonesome lady wants a little Christmas cheer,” she crooned. “Just a little Christmas cheer.”

I was too exhausted, too sick, to protest. I saw the loneliness on her face, saw the desperation, saw the fear of rejection, I knew the feeling. I felt the dawn and turned my head toward the window. It was still dark, but I could feel it, it pulled the darkness from me and with the darkness went the last of my strength.