Meg sat on the edge of her bed. She was thinking of Ben and Frank. She thought about Salomon  collapsing on top of her as well. Stared into space while images of johns came to her head. Johns who were old and fat. Greasy and some wearing suits. Those that did not pay. And those who raped her, punching her face until it was bruised and bloody. Offering crack as a payment. Kicking her back into the streets from vans, Cadillacs, station wagons that were driven on family trips across the country. And she knew her time was up. Time to head back to the streets. Back to living under a bridge, on a park bench, or a cardboard box. Bellevue was a nice vacation.

Dr. Eamons and a social worker came into her room with the news that she was waiting for. The pleasantries of a psych ward were over. They suggested she go to a shelter until she could qualify for a New York program. 

Come see me once a month, the young idealist said. Come this time next year, you’ll have your own room. Meg looked at the social worker blankly. She just nodded her head. She knew what she had to do.

She immediately headed back to 42nd and 8th to look for work along with the rest of the ladies. Soon, she’d be back at it. Staring into space while men violated her.

Meg smiled when they were done. It’s a living, she told them. It’s a living.