Eyes opened and smashed shut. Eyelids blinked. Grit was scabbed in the corners of her eyes. Vomit had dried on the side of her mouth. Moaning, Tara Tamasy stared up at the dark, metal-gray clouds above her. Alive. She was alive. Her breath nearly stopped again as the shock affected her brain. She managed to survive!

Relief. So much stronger than she ever imagined. Before tonight, she might have thought she didn’t care too much either way if she lived or died. Turned out, when that theory was put to the test, she cared a hell of a lot.

She didn’t want to die.

The problem was, she had no idea how to live.

But she was alive. Slowly, she bent forward until her back arched off the side of the concrete wall she was leaning against. Glancing up, she saw the building against which she’d been dumped unceremoniously. It loomed several stories high. In front of her was the green dumpster. She sniffed, her nose wrinkling as the heavy, acrid, foul smell of garbage singed her nose hairs. She took in a long, deep breath, letting it fill her lungs as she wearily reaffirmed she was still alive.

She slid her sleeve over her dirty, grubby hand and rubbed her chin and cheek to get rid of the dried vomit. Rising to her feet, she suffered from the pangs of arthritis in the cold dawn light. They left her. Dumped her there. Literally threw her out with the garbage. Perhaps she should have been grateful they didn’t toss her actually into the dumpster. They almost kindly left her sitting up so she didn’t choke on her own vomit and die.

It was close. Way too close this time.

Shaking off the vice of the drugged-out feelings, she glanced down, patting her chest, stomach, hips, and pockets. Everything was gone. They even stole the measly change she had. They left her clothed, at least. Did they do anything to her while she was out? Who knew? Some friends. What did she expect?

It wasn’t anything she hadn’t done to others. Stealing their shit while they were passed out on drugs.

Damn. The few dollars she had scrounged together were gone. Her tongue began tapping her dry, cracked lips, as if reliving the experience, although it was all misty and gray in her memory. She shuddered; at least she’d been tossed up on that little white pill. It made remembering the experience no more than vague images and fleeting memories.

All of it would eventually become vaguer memories and more fleeting images, as new ones, perhaps worse ones, appeared to her. Add them on to the last three years. Staring down at her toes in the canvas shoes she wore, she saw a rip over her big toe, and the heel was falling off the left shoe’s sole. She was down to no more than the clothes on her back. Even her backpack was gone. It held what few items she possessed in this world. Scraps of clothes, some candy, a leftover joint, and… a picture. A portrait of her family.

She shook off her disappointment. As if she needed a reminder of them. Ironically, if they walked past her at this moment, they’d never, ever have recognized her. They could stop, look her in the eye, and stare at her for ten minutes, or hear her voice even, and she doubted a single one of them could recognize her.

Except maybe Tristan.

She shut her brain down. No. No use thinking about them. Any of them. Not even Tristan. He was old now and probably all stuck up in their grandfather’s ass, being the perfect mannequin and becoming just like their grandfather as he started to run Tamasy Industries. Despite that, Tristan was the most decent of her spectacularly indecent family, albeit a little self-contained. Always busy and keeping to himself, he had a kinder heart than any of them. Even her. Besides, even if he did recognize her, he’d never have accepted her. Not like this.

Then again, what decent person would?

Her hair was dirty blonde and long. The color was owing to the actual dirt in it. She hadn’t bathed in days… okay, maybe a few weeks. She scratched her scalp. Once she started, it made the itching increase even more until she was nearly pulling the hair follicles out with her short, stubby fingernails. She yanked up the hood of her dark, generic hoodie, trying to ignore the itching. She almost laughed when she pictured her mother seeing her now. Her mother would have disowned her, or wished she had died last night. Anything rather than admit that this dumpy, bedraggled, dirty, filthy urchin from the street could be her daughter.

Tara shook her head. It didn’t matter anymore. None of them did. She wasn’t a Tamasy anymore. She was an Aderly. Tara was the only name she went by on the streets. Sometimes, she claimed Tara Aderly as her full name if hardpressed to admit it. That was her mother’s maiden name. Stupid perhaps for an alias, but definitely something she responded to. She wasn’t ready to totally excise her full identity. She very much doubted anyone was looking for Tara Tamasy. Tamasy was a name for Northern California, not Seattle, Washington. That was where she hitchhiked to and finally settled, maybe two years ago now. Everything began to blend together. The day, the week, the month and the year were all vague to her now. It didn’t matter to her anymore, not like it used to. She was no longer a functioning member of society. What did it matter what day it was? Or the time? Not like she had to be anywhere or do anything. She had dumpsters to hit. She had a pretty good routine going now, and some decent restaurant dumpsters she could dig through. She thought she was about twenty years old now, having left home six months after her seventeenth birthday. She might have been close to twenty-one now.

She went south first, heading to Los Angeles, then slowly worked her way north again, avoiding anywhere close to her hometown of Marsdale. She stayed in Portland for a while before coming to Seattle. The tent cities first drew her there. Homeless people lived all over the city and slept under the overpasses. She’d also lived under two or three overpasses in a small, one-person tent during the last few years.

Of late, she was hitting the drugs too hard. Last night, she got cornered by a group of four creeps, three guys and a girl. The girl was younger than Tara. Some stupid, runaway bitch who was meaner than all three boys combined. They caught her, high as a freaking kite, and took full advantage of her inebriated state. One pulled a knife on her while the others held her hands behind her back. She tried to shake them loose, but being weak and high wasn’t a good combination. She recognized one of the guys, a kid named George. His name was most likely fake, but he had cuddled up to her one night. They might have even fucked. She didn’t know for sure. Still, that was in the past. Not today.

She struggled and swore at them, quickly freaking out and trying to get away. But they hit her and smacked her around enough times to shut her up. By then, fear had firmly gripped her and she went limp, preparing herself for whatever they intended to do. She’d heard about plenty of the sadistic practices that went on. Some were sexual. Some were just plain cruel. She closed her eyes, knowing she was about to become a victim.

With light fingertips, she tenderly felt her face and palpated the swollen cheek and eye. They had smacked her hard enough to nearly knock her out before they robbed her and left her there, sacked out against the wall in the dark, slimy alley.

She staggered out of it. Cold puddles soaked her socks through the holes in her shoes. The tattered hem of the dark pants she wore dragged behind her and in no time, wet lines circled those.

She had to get out of there.

Her pace increased. She had no idea where she was going or what she intended to do, but she had to get out of there, the alley, the block, the city… this horrible life.

She had come too close to losing her life again. Now broke, dirty, hungry, and for the first time, finally scared for her safety, she had to get out of there.

But how?

She glanced around. The streets were mostly empty, but then a taxi sped by. Then a white delivery truck. Otherwise, there were only a few lone souls shuffling around. Doing what? Nothing. But probably more than she was doing.

She stopped short. She had to get out or die. It seemed pretty clear that was where this was headed. But how? Where to go? And what could she do?

Tears dripped over her eyelids. She wiped them, somewhat startled. She hadn’t cried in years. Not since her first few nights alone on the street. She was so scared then. The dirt and grime everywhere offended her. She was too grossed out to let any of it touch her. She soon became hungry, and lacking any skills for living on the street, she started to starve. She wouldn’t have survived, either, not if Jerome hadn’t found her and helped her.

Jerome.

No. She wouldn’t think of him now. He was gone. Like everything else in her life. Everyone else. But he taught her what no one else could, how to survive on the streets.

She closed her hand into a tight fist. Starting now. She’d had less before and managed to make do. It was time to get out of there before she couldn’t and got stuck there forever.