Where’s she heading to? asks Frank. Flew out of here like a rattled alley cat.

Stay out of her way. She’s upset.

She’s always upset.

Mad at us, says Ben.

What now? She wanted rock, and I brought her rock.

You gave it to me to give to her. Bad mistake.

I had business to attend to.

Who are you? Some Wall Street guy? Some hedge fund operator? Ben laughs. 

You smoked her shit.

Most of it.

Damn you, Ben.

Your fault. You trusted me. Don’t ever trust a crackhead. Don’t ever trust a pimp. I gave her some. She owed it to me anyway. Ben lit a cigarette.  She’ll be back tonight. All strung out. Looking like a ghost.

She’s a kid, Ben.

Used to be a kid. She ain’t no kid no more. She’s a crack whore.

No shit. But she’s still a kid.

She knows two things. Open her legs or open her mouth. That’s all a crack whore knows. Right?

We don’t need to talk about that.

Ben laughs. He sits down on the milk  crate. His bony knees come up to his chest. Frank digs through the coffee can for butts.

I’ll give you a cigarette, Ben says. But, it’ll cost you.

Everything always does.

Go keep an eye on Meg.

No telling where she’s at.

She don’t go far from the Point. Never does.  All her whoring takes place around here. Go on. Keep an eye out.  Make sure she comes back.

Men stare at her. They used to stare at her good looks. Now they just look at her like a dead fish washed up on the shore. Too much makeup, sometimes none at all. Filthy clothes. A dress she had bought years ago no longer fits right. Her curvy figure has turned to bones.

She sits on the train and hopes to go far, far away. Anywhere but the Bronx. Manhattan,  Brooklyn,  Queens. She could go to Staten Island and hook there. But girls have already staked their territory; piss marks on sidewalks. 

Meg gets off at 32nd Street and walks among the crowd. She makes her way to The Port Authority. Fresh meat getting off busses, young girls hoping dreams come true, boys running away from home, all of them have a story to tell. Meg forgot hers a long time ago.