Yoli, short for Yolanda, I assume, lifts the end of the heavy green tarp and I scoot under it for relief from the rain. I'd spent a good three hours deciding what to wear to make me blend in with some of the other park inhabitants, while at the same time making sure I didn't catch pneumonia on my first night out. Fortunately for me, I never threw stuff away, and the back of my closet was a treasure trove of worn out clothes from my teenage years. I still fit in most of them except a few of the skinny jeans that had gone way past my level of skinny. My favorite Levis, the pair that I had lovingly worn so often and on so many adventures that I'd created a series of holes all the way down from the thighs to the knees, still fit perfectly. I'd found them balled up under the aviator jacket I scored at a garage sale. The jacket had corny orange patches on the shoulders and the fleece lining looked less like fleece and more like sad cotton, but I concluded it would protect me from any night air chill. What I hadn't considered was that the jacket was too threadbare to protect me from rain. Aside from wearing the appropriate clothes, I'd needed to wipe several years off my appearance. I decided Tawny Smith, my new persona, was going to be nineteen. It was one of those rare occasions when my freckles came in handy. I had braided my dark red hair into two braids and topped the look off with a floppy brimmed felt hat that reminded me of something worn at Woodstock.

Yoli and Becky, the other girl huddling under the tarp with us, both nibble on half a sandwich someone left on the park bench. Apparently workers from nearby offices and buildings occasionally lunch in the park and leave their leftovers for the park's inhabitants. I am still working up the courage to eat someone else's leftovers. It's only my second day in the park, but I figure by nightfall, my stomach will be chewing itself if I don't put something in it.

Yoli, a petite seventeen-year-old, is always smiling. Even now, sitting on the curb around the slide and swings, huddling under a tarp and eating a stranger's leftovers, she's grinning. She told me life in her home was unbearable because of her stepfather and she has no intention of ever going back. The other girl, Becky, has curly brown hair and a tattoo of roses that crawl up her arm and around her neck. Apparently, her boyfriend was a tattoo artist and a successful one at that. The quality of the tattoo on her neck seems to confirm it. But it seems Chaz, as she calls him, was into some illegal shit along with the ink business. The cops yanked him out of his bed one morning and dragged him off, leaving Becky alone and penniless.

Besides the hours I spent perfecting my street kid wardrobe, I spent a good hour concocting a believable backstory, complete with an abusive mother and grandmother who had no interest in raising me. But I quickly discovered it didn't matter. Everyone out at the park was more concerned about their next meal and staying safe and warm and dry than the woes and tragedies faced by their fellow park mates.

What I did discover early on is that the park gives them all a sense of community. They have little but they share what they have. No one questioned me or my motives or my past. It seemed they had no option but to trust everyone. Paranoia and suspicion were only going to work against you when you were out alone on the streets.

Yoli offers me one last chance at the sandwich. "Are you sure, Tawny? With this rain, there won't be many more people eating lunch at the park today."

I feel guilty taking the last bite from her, but I decide since she's been living at the park for six months, she knows what she's talking about. I close my eyes and push the bite into my mouth. It's mostly bread crust and mustard, but it tastes good.

"Where did you find this tarp?" I ask. "It sure is keeping the rain out." I decided long before I arrived at the park not to bring up Cherry Cola with the hopes that one of them would bring it up first. Then I could innocently ask them about it.

"Oh jeez, that's it," Becky says as she pulls her old army jacket tighter around her. "You have asked the golden question."

"Have I?"

Yoli is smiling and readjusting herself for what seems like a potentially long answer. "Well, now that you ask," she says and pulls the tarp farther forward to shield us from rain being blown our direction. "One day I was walking along the freeway overpass, just minding my own business, like always, when from the corner of my eye a big flash of movement drew my attention to the freeway below. A massive tarp." She points up to the canvas cover above our heads. "It had blown free from a truck. I think it was carrying potting soil or fertilizer," she adds.

"Which explains the earthy odor," I say to an agreeing nod from Becky.

"The tarp must have caught the wind just right because it blew up into the air. It dipped and dashed over the cars, eventually getting tangled on the freeway sign hanging from the overpass." Yoli continues with her story, but my attention has been drawn to Rowan. Rowan has thick hair that is a little out of control, reminding me a bit of Maddox. It's hard to tell the age of some of the people in the park. Poor nutrition, lack of sleep and constant exposure to the elements makes some of the inhabitants look older than their natural age, but I estimate Rowan to be about twenty. He's handsome in a rugged, roguish sort of way, and he reminds me of Mark Stockton, a guy I went to high school with. Mark wasn't very social, and he always seemed kind of dangerous and mysterious. The girls in high school were always debating whether he was crush worthy or cringeworthy. He never returned for senior year, and since he was mostly friendless, we could only speculate about what had happened to him. His somewhat sketchy mystique helped formulate the farfetched tale that his dad had been in the CIA and they had to relocate suddenly to some far-off, exotic location. Rowan has some of the same mysterious, sketchy edges to him. I determine that he is a person to keep an eye on.

Rowan is standing in front of the tent he's constructed at the far end of the park where a dirt trail leads off into a copse of oak trees. The rain has slowed to a light drizzle. He is taking long, slow drags on his cigarette. His eyes are black and shiny like slate. Even from the distance and through the mist in the air, I can see that he's watching the three of us huddled under the tarp.

"And so I hung way over the sign, thirty feet above fast moving traffic," Yoli's voice drifts between my thoughts. "But I got the thing free, and now here we sit, dry and happy."

"Let's just leave it at dry," Becky says.

Yoli winks at her. "Yes but we're two days away from—" She stops when Becky shoots her a shut the hell up look. I'd already calculated that Yoli was the likely source for rumors and gossip at the park. Whereas Becky seemed to like to keep things sealed up.

But withering look or not, I jump on it. "Two days before what?" I ask airily.

"Nothing," Becky says quickly.

Yoli's face drops. She pretends to be interested in the pattern the rain has left on the sand in the swing set area. She avoids looking at me when she repeats what Becky says. "Yeah, it's nothing."

"I understand," I say dejectedly. "I haven't been here long enough to be one of the group." I sigh and make it sound a little mournful. "Story of my life, I'm afraid."

From the corner of my eye, I see Yoli elbow Becky.

"We can't tell her and you know it. It's up to—Jeez, it's getting hot under here," Becky complains and dashes out from under the tarp.

Yoli casts me a sheepish half smile. "She's always so dramatic." Before I can ask her more, she drops our canvas cover back. "Yay, I see some sun. I'm going to take a walk down to the market. Sometimes I get lucky and find perfectly good bread or fruit that they pull from shelves because it's past its prime. Wanna go?"

I glance toward the end of the park. Rowan has pulled a twisted, broken beach chair out of his tent. He's sitting on it and has switched tobacco for weed. Our female huddle is over, but he's still watching us. Or me, to be exact. My detective intuition tells me there's more to his bold stare than just general leering. He seems to be assessing me. It's hard to know if it's just because I'm new to the park or if he's deciding whether I can be trusted.

"Thanks for the invite, Yoli, but I think I'll stay here. I didn't get much sleep last night. I think the guy in the cardboard lean-to was snoring. Either that or there was a bear in the park."

Yoli laughs. It's a good, genuine laugh. It's hard to understand how a girl like her ended up sleeping in a park scrounging for leftovers and stale food. "That was no bear. It was Grover. Poor guy. He's been homeless off and on for twenty years. And he does resemble a bear when his beard is extra long."

I help Yoli fold up the tarp. She tosses it into the tent she has graciously offered to share with me. The local church has done fundraisers to buy tents for some of the park inhabitants. I see now how important that small gesture of generosity has been.

Yoli pulls a plastic grocery bag out of the stack of belongings she has shoved in the corner of the tent. She pulls the handles of the bag over her wrist like a woman with a handbag. "Wish me luck," she says as she walks spritely toward the sidewalk.

Olson has managed to snag himself a tattered tent at the opposite end of the park from Rowan. He's pitched his pathetic shelter near the bathrooms, a location that has its perks, along with its obviously pungent disadvantages. Aside from Clark, Detective Olson is the only person who knows about my assignment. That fact takes me directly to thinking about Maddox. I have no idea what Clark will tell him, but I can only assume my partner will notice my absence. Maybe Maddox will be relieved that I'm out for a few days. That thought drops a lump into my throat.

I head to the bathroom but stop in front of Olson's tent to tie my shoe. The earlier rain has pushed Olson inside. He's leaning against a pile of old clothes reading a throwaway newspaper.

"Any clue as to why that guy Rowan keeps such a close eye on me?" I burble from the side of my mouth while concentrating on a lace that doesn't need tying.

"Might be those Orphan Annie braids," he quips unhelpfully.

I switch to the other shoe, which also doesn't need tying. "You're a big help."

Olson stays inside his tent but moves closer to the opening. "See if you can get to know him. I tried and he wanted nothing to do with me." I glance through the netted opening. Olson has switched out the flasher style coat for a worn out ski parka. The downy stuffing is poking out through numerous holes. I can't hold back a laugh.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing. That coat is just so, so sad. But it's better than the other one. I'm going to see if I can charm my way into Rowan's friend circle."

It's his turn to laugh. "Yes, charm him by all means, Ten. Just be careful. I'd say a guy like that only wants one thing from a pretty new friend like you."

I smile and stand up from my crouch. "You think I'm pretty. I'm going to tell everyone at the station," I tease in a sing song voice before heading into the bathroom.

But the moment of levity is quickly tamped down by a sudden darkness that creeps into me. I look at my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks and nose are red from the cold air, but my hair has stayed firmly locked in the braids. I decide I need to drop the young innocence act and go for something bolder when I talk to Rowan. I pull the bands from the braids and shake out my hair. The color has been described as everything from rust to copper but to me it's just red. It's filled with waves. I'd braided it wet, after my last luxury shower where I spent a good ten minutes just letting hot water run over my skin. It's only been two days, but my scalp is starting to yearn for the avocado oil conditioner I've been using on my hair. Maddox had teased me that it smelled good but that he kept having an urge for tortilla chips when he was near me. And that memory takes me even deeper into my suddenly dark mood. Somehow my mention of the station sends a cold chill through me, and the notion that I might never see it again takes hold. There was no basis for the grim prediction. There was just something internal that suggested it. Might have been intuition, might have been just latent worry about the dangers of my assignment or it might just have been a dash of homesickness.

I take a deep, steadying breath. I can't let myself go down that particular rabbit hole. It was one of the mental hazards of being undercover. After having lots of people around who supported you and had your back, suddenly you were completely alone in an unknown place, filled with strangers, including yourself. I am no longer Detective Angie Tennyson with a strong, capable partner, a shiny badge and a reliable weapon on my belt. I'm Tawny Smith with little girl braids, no money or phone and one bite of a stranger's sandwich in my hollow stomach. I let that sink in for a second, then head back out to the park. I'm not sure if Rowan is a good place to start or a waste of time, but he's next on my target list.