Play dead

FIFTY-FOUR

Lilly walked the streets. Her stomach rumbled. She had never been this exhausted in her life. And still she walked. Spruce, Walnut, Locust, Sansom, Chestnut, Market. Up and down and across. She lingered for a while on Rittenhouse Square. She watched the city yawn and stretch and come awake. She watched the medical personnel arriving at Jefferson, the delivery trucks bringing the day's news, the day's bagels; she watched the homeless stir in doorways; she watched the cabs and the cops, two groups who knew no time.

She walked, her treasure in hand.

When she was twelve or so she had gone to a house party. As she was about to leave, her friend Roz slipped her a huge bud of weed, but she'd had nowhere to put it, no foil or plastic or anything. So she walked all the way home with it pinched between her thumb and forefinger, hanging on to it for dear life. She was not going to lose it. She walked more than two miles, cutting through Culver Park, across the reservoir, across the tracks. Somehow she made it home, her riches intact and whole, and dropped it into an empty pill vial with no small hum of accomplishment.

She had something even more important than that in her hand now. She couldn't even bring herself to put it in her pocket. She needed the feel of it against her skin.

She had his phone number. He was going to help her.

And so she walked, from Front Street to Broad Street, until she could walk no more. She sat on one of those big concrete planters.

She waited for the sun.