By now Skid Row was springing to life, more and more people hurrying through the streets, men and women heading to the shelters for breakfast service, junkies on the hunt for their first fix of the day. “Hold up. I think I see someone coming out,” Raya said, leaning forward, her nose pressing against the glass like a child peering in a storefront window.

Becca held her breath. She understood it was unlikely, but she hoped she might catch a glimpse of Ash. Two teenage girls exited the first tent, both reed thin, one with platinum blond shaggy hair that covered her eyes, the other with bright purple hair that hung down her back. Their mannerisms were affectionate, holding hands, sneaking looks at one another, obviously a couple. As if on cue, more kids emerged; teenagers, Becca thought, in varying ages and ethnicities, all of them smiling and joking with one another.

“Tattooed freak at six o’clock,” Raya said. Becca’s gaze darted over to a tent at the farthest end of the street, watching as a giant of a man unfolded himself and stepped out of the tent, his entire face and hands covered in blue and black ink. One of the girls in the group opened a plastic bag and began handing out Pop-Tarts and apples. How ordinary it all seemed, and yet so terribly sad, this ragtag group, banding together in a city that abandoned them.

Becca watched as the flap of another tent opened. A middle-aged woman appeared, a tie-dyed scarf wrapped around her hair. From Becca’s vantage point, she appeared small, maybe five foot four, her mousy brown hair streaked with gray. She reminded Becca of a middle-aged secretary, someone who might ask how you did in school before offering you baked goods. Becca watched as the others registered her arrival, all of them offering up smiles, hugs, and handshakes. She demurely accepted their affection with the graciousness of a Hollywood star greeting her fans.

“Hundred bucks that’s the crazy bitch right there,” Raya said softly. It was a sucker’s bet. The second Becca saw her, she was certain this woman called the shots. Call it gut instinct from a lifetime of analyzing people. Even from this distance, Becca could tell her vibe was toxic, darkness pulsating off her.

The woman’s head swiveled toward the restaurant as though she were an animal sensing her prey lurking nearby. Becca shivered and fought the urge to look away. This was a street family. Street families were common, especially in communities with large homeless populations. They were often composed entirely of children or teenagers with one or two adults taking on the parental role. Becca had no proof other than a gut feeling, but was almost certain this woman was in charge.

“There he is,” Raya gasped. “That’s the boyfriend. That’s him, isn’t it?”

“That’s him,” Becca said softly, watching Nate emerge from one of the last tents.