From the doorway, he looked at her. Watching as she lay on the mattress stained with grime and grit, sweat from grunting old men.

Still. Perfectly still. He wanted to hold her. Whisper that everything would be alright. But he knew that wasn’t the case. Now she was bruised fruit. No longer fresh like when they first came to town.

We have to find Radio City, Meg said. We have to. They both marveled at the tall buildings and lights. Everywhere lights. That’s where my dreams will come true, she told Ben. I’ll be the shortest Rockette in the history of Rockettes, but I’ll make it.

Gotta keep practicing those kicks, Ben said as he parked the Dart on 5th Avenue. Let’s walk a bit. Get out and stretch. He grabbed his pack of smokes, offered Meg one, and opened the door for her.

This is as good as it gets, he said. Look. There’s the statue on the cover of Atlas Shrugged.

What?

A book. By Ayn Rand. She wrote about self-determination. Doing it on your own in this world.

Oh. I see. And here’s a church.  Let’s go in.

For what?

To pray.

To whom? Nobody’s listening.

The two walked up to Central Park, marveling at people as they walked by, horse-drawn carriages, and old women selling flowers. He bought her a dozen daffodils. She kissed him on the cheek the way a daughter would kiss a dad. She had found her father. 

He watched her lying there. Lit a cigarette and thought, nothing is forever. Nothing. Atlas shrugged.

Soon, she would wake up. Back up to Hunts Point to catch her prey. Old men, young kids, teens looking for anything to get them off, businessmen driving by in cars with Connecticut plates. Ben looked at her and quoted the Virginia Slims slogan; You’ve come a long way, baby.

Ben turned on the radio. Ornette Coleman’s The Shape of Jazz to Come was playing on WKCR.

It’s 1:30 here in New York. Now, back to more great music, the girl said.

Ben closed his eyes and slept among the swept piles of broken glass, beer cans, empty bottles of TJ Swann. He had no dreams, just slept for what seemed like for minutes, but was hours. Hours of a day wasted.

It’s noon here in New York, the young man’s voice said on the radio. Now, back to chamber music here on WKCR.

Meg. Meg. Ben called out. Meg. He walked back to her room. She was gone.