Luck

The bar was close now.

Ellen could see its neon glow flickering on the wet pavement, dull red pooling in the gutters, stretching with the ripples of the drizzle. The buzz of the sign droned under the city’s hum . . . faint, steady . . . like the throbbing in her legs. She kept her head down, soaked clothes clinging to her skin, bags dragging her like anchors.

Her cardigan sagged, her jeans . . . stiff, shoes squelching with every step. Her body ached with each movement. And she couldn’t let anyone see her like this. Not like this.

Not with tangled hair, the bags, old suitcase knocking her ankle. 

They’d know.

Homeless.

No one had to say it. You could hear it in the silence before a greeting, the quick flick of eyes toward the bags . . . and away. She didn’t want their pity.

Her gaze darted to the front entrance. Too bright. Too open. She veered left, slipped into the alley.

The air shifted. Neon glow disappeared. Sound faded beneath the stillness of the alley. Buildings pressed in. Water dripped from rusted fire escapes. Then came the smell . . . rotting food, old piss, wet cardboard. She breathed through her mouth.

Just past the dumpsters . . . 

“You need to get the hell away from me!”

She froze. The voice came from right beside her. She turned . . . slowly.

A man sat beside a dumpster, in a nest of cardboard and blankets. He was almost indistinguishable from the garbage that surrounded him. Coat filthy, beard tangled and coarse, cap shadowing his face. A bottle clutched in his hand. He wasn’t looking at her. His eyes darted between the shadows, knuckles clenched around the bottleneck.

“I see what you are,” he muttered.

Not slurred nonsense. Not ghost-whispers. Something else.

His eyes snapped to hers. “Don’t think I don’t see it.”

Ellen’s fingers tightened on her suitcase handle. Then . . . 

“I got enough bad luck without you bringin’ more Shades my way!”

Shades?

The word meant nothing. But, bad luck . . . she knew that. It had followed her for years.

She took a step back. Not afraid . . . just unsettled. He looked at her like he knew her.

She turned and moved. Fast. Her sneakers splashed. Breath uneven. Bags heavy. His words burrowed beneath her skin.

She kept going. First bend. Then the second. Neon light vanished. The alley swallowed the street behind her. She didn’t stop until she reached the back entrance. 

The man. The street. Gone. She exhaled, grip loosening on the suitcase. Her fingers throbbed with cold. The back of the bar loomed beside another dumpster and some bins. The metal door rusted and scarred. 

She couldn’t take her bags inside. They’d know. The questions would come. 

Ellen, are you okay? 

You staying somewhere? 

You know you can talk to me, right?

No. She couldn’t handle that. She scanned the alley. Empty. It wasn’t safe, but it was hidden. There . . . a gap behind the dumpster. It would have to do.

She hauled her suitcase up onto the flat lid of the dumpster. A dull thud. The holdall followed. Then the backpack. Her shoulders sagged.

She stood still, breath heaving, arms burning.

Then suddenly the ambience shifted.

The rain eased. A sliver of sun broke through the mist . . . golden. It touched her face. Warm. Gentle. Comforting. For a second, the alley softened. Mist curled from puddles. The grime felt less oppressive. The warmth soaked into her clothes.

She let out a breath. Maybe things could turn around. Not hope. But something close.

She wiped hair from her face, unzipped her bags. She moved quickly, efficiently. Clothes . . . damp but usable. Toiletries . . . barely enough. She spread the items across the open suitcase, choosing what she needed.

One outfit. Stuff to freshen up . . . wash. In the backpack. That was it. Everything else can stay in the other two bags behind the dumpster.

She had a plan . . . a simple plan.

Clean up. 

Work. 

Earn tips. 

Find a bed. 

Repeat.

She breathed deep, rolling her shoulders. The tension ebbed. For the first time all day, she felt a flicker of control.

Then . . . a noise sliced the silence. Voices. Far off, distant, murmurs in the direction of where she had come. The alley mouth. 

Two men. Sharp voices. Authority in every word. Police.

Her stomach clenched.

They were with the homeless man.

She caught snatches . . . sharp commands. “Come on, let’s go… You can’t stay here… Get up.”

Then the man’s voice. Slurred. Defeated. Stalling.

“There’s someone else back there…”

Her breath caught. Had he just . . . ?

“Go check it out.”

Boots. Wet pavement. Closer.

Panic surged.

She turned for the bars back door . . . 

Her elbow hit the suitcase. It slid, she wasn’t fast enough to react. It fell, hitting the trash can on the way down. Clothes spilled across the pavement. The trash can tipped. 

CRASH!

Noise exploded in the alley.

The footsteps quickened. They were closer now.

She dropped to her knees, hands scrambling, stuffing clothes back in the case.

Then . . . a voice.

“Stop what you’re doing and show me your hands!”