Survival Strategies of the Almost Brave by Jen White

plastic swirled around us. It was getting hot. I shoved the purse over into the wet spot, but then I stopped. I wrapped my fingers around the handle.
    Orson continued to cough.
    â€œWhat got you so up in arms?” asked the Lavender Lady. I heard rustling from the front of the car. “Here’s your water,” she said. “Orson. Water.”
    I heard gulping, and then the coughing stopped. She turned on the engine and slowly drove through the parking lot. I pulled the purse closer.
    Billie looked at me, questions in her eyes.
    My heart bumped.
    The smell of pee was stronger now—it filled my nose and hair and eyes. I blinked back the burn. The Lavender Lady would notice any second. But still, I could not let go of the purse.
    Billie’s stomach let out a gurgle.
    Mom had always said, “Billie does whatever you do. You are the example.” I knew that. Did she think I didn’t know that?
    Billie pushed the hair out of her eyes and shook her head back and forth, just a little. I guess her mind powers were working.
    A tingle ran up my back. I ignored it. What else could I do? The Lavender Lady was practically begging me to open her purse. How long had we sat back here with it? Billie and me, we had nothing.
    Somehow I knew that if I could talk to the Lavender Lady, really look into her eyes and tell her what had happened to us, she’d help in an instant. Give us every cent she had. Take us to California to find Julie. I stared at the black leather of the seat in front of Billie like I had X-ray eyes. Like I was telling her everything and she listened like there wasn’t anyone else in the world. She might even adopt us. I was sure she would. Just like that tiger I saw on the news that adopted piglets, four of them. They put little tiger-print sweaters on them and the tiger fed them and kept them warm, just like their real mom would have done if she had been alive.
    But Billie and I were not piglets.
    I stared at where we sat curled in plastic and pee and thought maybe we were, just a little. The thought of really asking the Lavender Lady for help made me want to throw up. I couldn’t really trust her. Usually how people seemed and what they actually did were opposites. Look at what had happened this morning with Dad. What if the Lavender Lady was mad about Billie and me sneaking into her car and about Billie peeing all over it? For sure she would be angry about the pee. There was no way I would ask her for help. Not for real.
    The Lavender Lady hummed as the car bumped into a parking spot.
    â€œOkay, Orson, the map says we’re in building C. I’m going in first to open our room door and turn on the lights, and then I’ll come back and help you.”
    Orson mumbled.
    â€œI’ll be right back.”
    This was my chance. I grabbed her lavender studded purse and unzipped it—fast. Faster than I thought I could, and then I dumped everything onto the car floor. Receipts, hand sanitizer, some kind of medicine, tissues, her wallet(!), old lady lipstick, some breath mints, and that crumpled-up business card Cowboy had given her.
    Billie hunched over me and poked at the tin of breath mints with her skinny finger.
    I handed them to her.
    She flipped the lid open and dumped them all into her mouth.
    While she crunched on those, I unbuttoned the wallet. But then something made me stop. I had never stolen anything in my life, unless you counted the Ring Pop at the grocery store when I was four. (Which I did not, because Mom had marched me back to the store manager to return it and apologize.) But right now I wasn’t stealing. I was looking. There was nothing wrong with looking.
    Orson started to cough again.
    I yanked the wallet open. My heart fluttered, like a hummingbird was trapped inside. Out slipped the Lavender Lady’s driver’s license. On the top it said CALIFORNIA . She was from California! A straight ride to San Diego … maybe. Then: MYRNA ANN