Ten years old, with a crazy rat’s nest of porter-beer-colored locks hanging down around a pale face of sticky streaks, dimpled cheeks, and chapped lips. Dirty yellow and white Care Bears T-shirt. One hand waves; the other holds a small coffee can, ready when a car stops at the red light. Watching for a meeting of eyes from the driver. Some look straight ahead, hoping the light will change to green before they lose their steely resolve and glance in the girl’s direction. But when eyes meet, even for an instant, windows roll down and strains of pop, rap, country, R&B, or talk radio waft out along with cigarette smoke, cologne, or coffee breath. And following that, a hand waving a green bill or a fistful of change. She runs up to the vehicle, holding out the can. Watches the crimped paper money drop, hearing the coins rattle down. She thanks them for their generosity, hops back up on the curb, watches them pass, and waits for the next eye contact.

A couple of hours in, several homeless people come pushing their shared buggy of copper wiring and scrap. Piled and hanging from the cart are odds and ends of clothing, tools, boots, bedding, and folded cardboard. An older man of color with ashen Brillo-pad hair and jaundiced eyes and a woman with mousy hair and spider-veined, needle-tracked arms. Their teeth are thick with accreted gunk from years of street living. Stepping closer, their glowering eyes burn through Anne and Sweet Tart.

“Shit y’all think you’re doin’ on our corner?”

“Guess we didn’t know you owned the corner,” Anne says.

“Got squatter rights. It’s ours.”

Anne reached over to Sweet Tart, held the girl tight to her side. “We ain’t going nowhere. We can share. We’re just about done.”

“Share, my ass. You definitely done. Whatever you got in that there can belongs to us.”

“I wouldn’t share the sweat off my ass with you. And whatever’s in this can belongs to us. We’re the ones who earned it.”

“We’ll be seeing about that,” the greasy male snarls.

Anne kneels down, digging a hand into her backpack. Fingers press and search for the cold weight. She says to the man, “You might want to think about backing the fuck up!”

Swaying closer, he looks and sounds half drunk. “Or what, little girl? I’ve beat my daughter’s ass more than a time or two, and I’d be happy to beat yours right along with this half-pint you got for backup.”