THE NEXT SUNDAY, I quietly handed Sister Gladys the keys to my room at the shelter. I did it while everyone else was at church, so there would be no questions and no gossip. I hadn’t even said good-bye to Janice and Tiny. I had thought about calling Ma and Nakesha, then had changed my mind about both. The next time either one of them heard from me, I would be in another state.

“Well, you always welcome back if we got room,” Gladys said, hugging me in the Haven of Christ Temple’s vestibule. “Long as you don’t get fussy ’bout who you sharing it with.”

I had many emotions about leaving. This was the closest thing to a family I had ever had the privilege of living with. I had not spoken with Ma, especially after hearing from Jewel that she was completely irate with me, so much so that Jewel refused to confess my location for fear my own mother might slice my throat. I did not know where we stood, if she had “forsaken” me as it said in Psalms. I loved my ma, would always love her, but I just needed some time away to discover what I was truly made of. I wanted to know if I could make it beyond King Drive and Chicago, my tiny world in which I had always felt like I was drowning.

Sundays on the South Side of Chicago belonged to the church folks: old ladies stood at the bus shelters in their ornate hats, saggy-jeaned thugs took cover as saggy-suited boys followed their grandmothers into church, old men crawled out of the bars and into the pews. When a shiny, 1980-something chocolate Eldorado pulled up on Halsted, I wasn’t expecting Rasul to get out. I thought it was going to be one of the deacons from Second Baptist, picking up the few stray girls who were sure to be late each Sunday. Tupac, not gospel, blasted from the stereo as he partially rolled down the window, wearing dark black sunglasses, to let me know it was him. He had on a leather jacket I had never seen him in. His fade was lined just right. The new car, clothes, and cut made him look brand-new—more like the man he was always claiming to be. God, he looked fine that day, in the Sunday morning sunlight, leaning out of that car window like he was picking me up for church. I patted my hair down nervously like I was seeing him for the first time.

“Hello, Ms. Gladys,” he said, then gently pulled the ride up to the curb. He hit a button inside to lift the trunk automatically.

“Hmph,” Gladys grunted. “Looks like somebody got them a new job …” In her mind, he had to be just one of the many dealers who dropped their teenaged lovers off at the shelter once they had used them up for another night.