Battle Scars by Sheryl Nantus

adult but a lot don’t.”
    He sighed and dug in his pocket for a dollar coin. “It’s not the best option.” He flipped the coin into the open bucket, earning a wide smile from the young man working the drums and a wink and grin from his girlfriend. “But for some it’s all they have.”
    “What was Angie’s story?”
    “You read the article.”
    “There was nothing in it about her. But did she tell you?” I was walking on shaky ground but couldn’t stop rolling. “How did she end up here?”
    “I honestly don’t know. She refused to tell me and I didn’t push.” He shrugged. “Push too much and people clam up. I figured she’d tell me in her own good time. She never did. A lot of them never have their stories told.” A strangled sigh broke free. “They go to their graves, Jane Does and John Does and no one ever knows. Not even their parents, who keep waiting for that phone call, a visit from the police to say there’s some sort of resolution, maybe even a body they can bury.” He looked at the growing shadows between the buildings. “Instead there’s just silence.”
    I squeezed his hand. “You okay?”
    “Yes.” He squeezed back. “You need this done as fast as possible. Whether or not the kids want to go home we have to find them and at least let them know the trouble coming down on their heads. It’s one thing to be out here trying to make it on your own, another when you’ve got people actively hunting for you. And not with your best interests in mind.” He let go of my hand and strolled over to the couple, now much friendlier thanks to our donation.
    As he showed them the photographs I sniffed the air. It was a long shot that I’d be able to pick any Felis out of the odor soup clogging the street around us but it was worth a shot.
    Nothing. A spicy curry from the restaurant nearby, a smattering of perfumes from the pedestrians and bad body odor from a bike courier. The two performers rated above the bike courier, with a hint of soap clinging to the young girl.
    Bran returned a minute later. “No dice. They’re new here, just came in from Vancouver last week.”
    “What, they take vacations?”
    He chuckled. “Depends on how bad-ass the police are. If there’s a clamp-down on street entertainers in one city it’s worth it to commute to another until the heat dies down and you can go back. That is, unless it’s more profitable where you move to.”
    I ran a hand through my hair, digging out a blond knot at the edge of the ponytail. “Either way it doesn’t help us.” I looked at the sun, ducking in and out between the skyscrapers as it headed for the horizon. “Going to be quitting time soon. Streets are going to get busy.”
    “Evening audience. It’ll be good for the entertainers, not so much for the beggars—the commuters won’t have time to stop and drop coins into cups but the people hitting the bars and plays and movies might want to enjoy a bit of music before and after the show. The soup kitchens will be handing out meals and then shooing the kids out for the night.” Bran glanced at his watch. “As good a time as any to split up.”
    I couldn’t fault his logic.
    I didn’t have to like it.
    “Give me some of those pics.” He took the handful I offered and folded them into a tight square before slipping them into a pocket. “Thanks.”
    “Be careful.” I hesitated, unsure of how to word my concerns. “These aren’t the same kids you knew from before. We’re old enough to be the enemy.”
    “Don’t worry.” He kissed my forehead, earning a whoop of approval from the drummer who launched into another crazed rhythmic solo. “I’ll be careful. Keep your phone on and I’ll see you at home.”
    I scowled but said nothing.
    Bran walked down the street, stopping once to turn and wave at me. I waved back with a forced smile.
    The drummer thumped something low and foreboding as I headed in the opposite direction.
    * * *
    Two hours later I stumbled through a