“Brat,” the old woman sneers at her and I’m taken aback by her sudden vehemence.

“Helga.”

“Slut.”

“Wicked Witch of the West.” Joan looks at the ceiling and circles around. “Now if only we could find a house to fall on you.”

The old woman rolls her eyes.

Joan crosses her arms over her chest and faces me. Curtly, she asks, “Who are you? What’s your story?”

“Uh . . .” I don’t give out my real name. Ever. “Red, works. Um . . . it’s my first night.” I stuff my hands in my back pockets. “Thank you for—”

She shakes her head. “Just watch your back next time, so I won’t have to. There’s more than one wolf in this forest. If you know what I mean.” Then, I’m yet again caught off guard as she fake lunges at the old woman who flinches. Joan gives an amused huff, turns and saunters off, kicking items on the floor that have the misfortune of being in her path, leaving me with the impression that she’s a little bit of a mini tornado.

The thought brings a small smile to my face. She’s got spunk, like someone else I know and miss.

Helga, as Mini Joan referred to her, is not impressed. In fact, she seems rattled as she grumbles something under her breath.

An awkward silence descends between us. Then she mutters, “Don’t pay attention to Ivy. That girl’s an ungrateful shit.”

Ivy. Is that the girl’s name?

Not facing me, she says, “You know, you have the look of the Irish about ya. The red hair, freckles. But blue eyes instead of green.”

They’re actually blue-green, but I don’t correct her.

“I may have the look, but none of the luck.”

“Mhmmm.” She drops her bag by my foot. “Maybe you need to learn how to make your own luck. I’ll be right back. Don’t let this out of your sight.”

“Sure.” I nod and sit back down onto my cot as she walks away.

A few moments later, as I comb the rats out of my hair, a melancholy feeling hits me. It hits me about the same time every day. I pull my notebook slash scrapbook out and flip through the pages, running my eyes over a photo, then the drawings done by a five-year-old. They are the only things that cure the homesick feeling I get in the pit of my stomach.

Soon enough Helga returns with her hair wet and her skin clean, although, she’s put on the same tattered clothing.

“Your turn.”

I pull out my shampoo and conditioner from my bag. But she stops me with a hand on my arm. “Don’t go wasting your own. They have that stuff in the shower room, and Uncle Sam can afford to help you out.”

“Oh . . . right . . . thanks.” I shove my shampoo, conditioner, and scrapbook in my bag then zip it closed.

After grabbing a change of clothes, I head toward the showers, disheartened because the highlight of my existence is now a decent meal and a shower.

Yeah . . . this is certainly not where I pictured my life going.

The water’s not ice cold, but not hot either. Bearable enough. At least it lets me clean away the visible and invisible filth I can feel covering my body. I quickly shave my goosebump covered legs and wash my hair, thankful the old woman spoke up about using the facility’s shampoo and conditioner. I can’t afford to waste the necessities I have left.

After towel drying my hair, I comb it straight and twist it into a braid. If I don’t want it to go frizzy, it’s my only option besides a bun. I slip into my other pair of jean shorts, a white tank top, a somewhat clean blue and white plaid shirt, and pull on my tennis shoes.

I pass the dining hall on my way back and watch as the volunteers stand behind tables dishing out food. Just the mere thought of food has saliva pooling in my mouth. But I need my bag before I can get in line, so I head into the room designated for women.

The cots have been folded up and put away. The bunks pushed against the walls. Most of the women are gone, leaving the middle of the room bare.

A sick feeling grips me when, I don’t see the old woman or my duffle anywhere.

My duffle, the one holding all my worldly possessions not currently on my body. Like my wallet. My extra clothes. My money . . . my scrapbook. The one I made that has my only pictures of Willow and the drawings she’s made me over the years. Things I’m quite certain I can’t survive without.

I scan every inch of the room twice, three times, hoping I’m wrong. That she’s here somewhere.

I whirl around in a panic and set off to search every inch of the shelter. People stare. And it only ratchets up my irritation more. Are they silently laughing at me? Did they know the entire time what the old woman was up to?

How could she do this to me?

Heat crawls up my neck and face. I grind my teeth and ball up my fists, ready to punch someone or something.

Why do I trust the wrong people? Why can’t I see them for who they really are? My mom. Sundown. Warner. How many people will I let take advantage of me before I wise up?

Falling back against the wall, I cover my face with my hands. Then push my fingers into my eyes lids as I physically and mentally fight the need to cry. I can’t let the pain tear me apart right now. I can’t afford to. I know this, and yet I slowly slide down the wall and bring my knees up so I can hide my face.

Steps thud on the linoleum. They stop right in front of me. “You all right, Red? You looked like you were trying to poke your own eyes out.”

In a droll, bitter voice, I respond, “That’s because I was.”

Ivy exhales a long breath. “I tried to warn you.” She sounds close, almost as if she’s standing over me.

She tried to warn me? How? There’s more than one wolf in this forest? Really? Could she have been more cryptic?

“Can you please just . . . let me fall apart in peace?” It comes out muffled. “Or is that too much to ask ‘round here?” I purposely mimic the old woman and put as much sarcasm behind my words as I can manage.

I’m not in a good place right now. At times like this, my temper tends to get the best of me. I try to bite my tongue. But it doesn’t last long, especially when the next thing I hear is her laugh.

I raise my head a little. Did she really just laugh? Like this is funny to her?

Black boots with blue snakes painted on the toes come into my line of vision. I’m shaking. No doubt, my cheeks are flaming red. I feel the words bubbling up and I know I’m about to snap and do what my mother always referred to as “spitting venom.” Fitting since this girl likes snakes.

“WHEN? When did you try to warn me? Did you come right out and say, ‘Hey, just a heads up, that old woman is going to steal your stuff.’? Or was I supposed to understand some vague Red Riding Hood reference?”

“Damn, Red, chill. No need to get all jazzy. The world’s not ending or anything. At least not today.”

I smack my head against the wall behind me. “Just go away.” My voice drops to a defeated whisper. “You don’t get it. She took everything.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

Glaring up at her, I snap, “Seriously? Just go away.”

Instead of doing so, she slides down the wall to sit beside me. “Sheesh. Guess it’s true what they say about redheads then, huh?” After a minute, she adds, “At least with Helga you’ll eventually get some of it back.” She taps a finger over her lips. “Maybe . . . probably . . . most likely the clothes, but not the money. The money’s, well money, and that’s as good as gone.”

“Where can I find her?”

Ivy crosses her legs Indian style. “She won’t be back here for a few days. Knows you’ll be looking for her. And sadly, that woman has lived on these streets for longer than I’ve been alive, so she knows her way around this city. Best wait for another rainy day. You’ll be able to catch her here then.”

I pull in a sharp breath. Dread circles in my belly. “What am I going to do ’til then?” I let out a long exhale and look over at the girl next to me. Again, I’m taken aback by her youth and unique eye color. She’s already pretty, but she’s going to be quite something when she grows up.