Josie shoved a piece of bacon into her mouth. She chewed thoroughly before swallowing and making eye contact with Tristan. He sat frozen, suspended over his food.

“I had no idea. None of us did.”

“That’s kind of how witness protection works.”

Josie continued to eat while Tristan sat watching. He felt sick to his stomach. It seemed as though a black cloud had settled over their table.

“Josie! Where you been all my life, girl?”

The pair looked up to find a young black boy leaning on their table. His denim jacket covered a dirty T-shirt, and braids stuck out from his hat. He smiled at Josie and gave her a wink.

“Gregory, what’s up, little man?”

“Ah, you know. This and that. How you doin’? Ain’t seen you around in a while. We gettin’ your deliveries all the time, though.”

“I’m good.”

Josie ducked her head and sucked on her straw. She felt exposed having this conversation with Tristan present.

“Yeah, looks like you real busy.”

Gregory turned to Tristan and gave him a once-over, tilting his head and sliding his lips sideways in disapproval.

“Where’s your sister?” Josie asked.

“Stop trying to change the subject, hottie. You know I’m tryin’ to holla at you.”

Josie shook her head and put down her milk shake.

“When I’m into fourteen-year-olds, you’ll be the first to know.”

“I may be fourteen, but I got game. Better than this…” Gregory said, motioning to Tristan.

“Tristan, this is Gregory. Gregory, Tristan,” Josie offered, waving back and forth between the two. Tristan wiped his hands on a napkin and held one out toward the boy.

“Nice to meet you, Greg.”

“Oh, shit,” Josie whispered.

“Greg? Did you say Greg? Did this sexy woman right here say my name was Greg? No. She said Gregory. Three syllables. Big effort for a lazy fool like you, but work it out, white boy.”

Josie giggled, pressing the palm of her hand over her lips.

“Gre-gore-ree,” Gregory pronounced, unhinged by Tristan’s gall. “Where did you find this clown?” he asked Josie.

“My apologies, Gregory,” Tristan spoke up, saving Josie from answering. “I’m sorry.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Nice jacket. Gavin give you that?” Josie asked.

“Yeah, you know. I guess she grew out of it or whatever. It’s a little old and a lot country, but I ain’t gonna complain.”

“It’s actually vintage Levi’s. It’s got the single-stitch at the bottom of the button placard and only has breast pockets, so it’s pre-1971.”

“Are you speakin’ English? It’s just a jacket, man,” Gregory moaned. “Seriously, Jo? You could do better. I mean, why not me?”

“Because curfew law says you’re not allowed outside of the home between ten P.M. and six A.M. on weekdays,” Tristan stated, pleased with himself.

“Guess that don’t matter when you don’t have a home,” Gregory answered.

With that, he rolled his eyes, gave Josie a quick wave, and was gone.

“Wow,” Tristan said smiling. “He was … colorful.”

“Is that a racist joke?”

“What? No! Josie, I would never,” he said, dropping his fork to the table.

“Yeah, I know. It was funny watching you freak out, though.”

Josie winked and ate the last piece of bacon.

“He’s homeless?”

“Gregory uses the phrase ‘residentially challenged.’”

Tristan nodded.

“Are all your friends residentially challenged?”

“He’s not a friend, just a kid I know.”

Tristan noticed that her demeanor changed instantly and he felt the warning in her posture. Subject closed.

“So, you saw me that night in the alley.”

Josie unconsciously smoothed down the hooded sweatshirt and nodded.

“Is that mine?” he asked, recognizing the red stitching on the sleeve.

“Yeah. You left it in the alley.”

Tristan weighed his options and contemplated which questions he could get away with asking. After coming up clueless, he decided to be satisfied with what he’d already learned. That alone would take time to process.

He wasn’t someone who believed in fate or destiny. There was always a scientific, mathematical, or coincidental explanation for anything. The fact that little McKenzi Delaune sat before him munching on bacon was blowing his mind.

Tristan lay in bed after their midnight meeting, trying to piece together the broken girl he’d just learned existed. There used to be this ache, this burning pain in his chest. It held all the love and loss for a girl named McKenzi. Before the punishment of ink etched into his skin, there had been McKenzi. Back when he knew who he was and what he wanted, when life was full of possibilities and everyone expected the best, there had been McKenzi.

She had lost everyone and everything. Tristan knew that she would guard herself from more pain. The girl was beautiful, full of sex appeal and mystery. While he knew he couldn’t pick up where they left off, he longed to seize her. He turned off the light and stared up at a gray shadowed ceiling, wondering how on earth he’d found her.

Twenty-two blocks away, Josie paused to tag a stop sign in purple marker. The squeak and slide of the felt tip against metal comforted her. So did having representations of herself all over the city. Even though she felt like nothing, these markings would prove that she was here. Just to see what it would look like, she wrote Tristan’s name too. Stepping back and admiring the way their stacked names connected, she smiled and headed toward home. That night she fell asleep wrapped in the hoodie that belonged to a boy who once loved her.

In the sixty-nine hundred block of Levant Street, Mort snuck into the San Diego Child Welfare Services office. He quickly hacked into the computer system, not slowed down by the archaic password protection screen. Gathering all the necessary information to do this remotely next time, he began his hunt.

He had grown tired of this chase. If he had been any other idiot, he would have crossed his fingers and said a prayer that this would give him a clue, some sort of direction. That was for superstitious idiots who had more faith in a higher power than in themselves.

Mort had been on this job for so long that when he lay in bed at night it was the only thing on his mind. It ruled his brain every waking minute and even those in his sleep. What he wouldn’t give to be free of this troublesome girl.

He had not yet alerted Moloney to his whereabouts. He didn’t want to get the man’s hopes up before he’d discovered anything concrete. Finding out the girl was still alive had been a matter of luck. Finding out where she had been sent had been a matter of painful and bloody coercion.

After maneuvering through the complicated filing system, he was finally able to type in his search. Clicking in the waiting box, the cursor blinked at him. Mort’s fingers moved swiftly over the keyboard, pecking out the name that had come at such a high price. He was so close he could taste it.

He hit Enter and smiled as the screen displayed JOSIE BANKS: ONE RESULT FOUND

Any object that orbits another celestial body.

Monica Templeton, all five feet nothing of her, approached the dilapidated redbrick building without hesitation. Though she didn’t live in the neighborhood, she was here often. Being a social worker took her to every nook and cranny of this city. There were no boundaries set by race, religion, or social status. Her job included everyone. It’s what had brought her into the field in the first place. Monica truly believed that everyone deserved a fair chance at a happy and healthy life.

Home visits were usually unpleasant, but they were a necessary part of the job. It was imperative to visit the children in their homes, making sure they were taken care of and provided for. In her many years on the job, and through trials that tested her moral strength, she had learned to take nothing for granted. Monica became an expert at seeing things that were not meant to be seen, at assessing visual clues and behaviors. In short, she’d learned a great deal from her mistakes.