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Claire Crow

Copyright Claire Crow 2012
Published by Secret Fire Press

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The girl in the ripped red sweater rambled into the 24-hour diner on a February Thursday at 2 AM and slid into the opposite side of my booth like she knew me.

She said Hi, Jen.

Did I hear her right? Had anyone else heard?

No, thank God.

I didn’t think anyone knew me by that name, not for going on five years now. Not since I’d gotten lost. I didn’t want to be found.

I stared at her, not wanting her to read my reaction. I was good at hiding, good at The Poker Face.

“A buck seventy-five an hour’ll buy you coffee, honey,” I said. And a warm, dry place to pass as much of the night as you could afford. “It won’t do a damned thing for your crazy.”

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