She is cold, wet, hungry, and miserable.
She huddles by the brownstone walls of the tenement building, her arms wrapped around her thin body as the New York City rain pelts down and sideways, and the wind whips and howls through the street. Wet leaves and sodden debris scuttle past her. Her jacket is soaked through. The material is hardly enough to keep her warm in the dipping temperature.
Her thigh muscles ache from having run so fast. She is now in an unfamiliar part of town, not that New York City is familiar to her. She has just gotten off the bus at Port Authority, and her first day here has been shot to hell.
She has no idea where she has ended up. All she wants is to get out of the rain and cold.
But she has no more money, courtesy of those street thugs back there. She has no wallet and no spare change. Her cellphone too has been stolen. Her stomach hurts something awful. It's her gastritis, acting up again. She has to eat something soon or keel over with heartburn.
She sees an alcove with a doorway and huddles under its meager shade. The rain angles in and pelts her, so its sanctuary is not much comfort. But at least she can rest here and gather her energy, or what's left of it.
Her knees buckle with fatigue. She slides down against the wall and sits there on the wet ground. Her head droops. She's tired. So tired.
She has hardly had any sleep during the bus ride. But her nerves are fraught with anxiety, and every time she closes her eyes, she imagines someone will come for her if she isn't on the alert. Someone will close his hand over her shoulder and say:
"What have you done now, Abby Holt? You are in so, so much trouble."
She sits up, startled, and then realizes it is just a daydream. She relaxes - as much as someone can relax while being exposed to this weather. Finally, she dozes off, unable to fight sleep. She has been fighting too much lately and her body is screaming at her to rest.
"Miss?" says a male voice in her dreams. "Miss, are you all right?"
She jerks herself awake again and opens her bleary eyes. Her body shivers violently.
A man is standing there at the doorway, staring intently down at her. In the dark, he is silhouetted by the streetlamps beyond. His yellow parka glistens with raindrops. He is very tall, and his shadow covers her huddled body like a shroud.
"Sorry," she says, trying to stand up. Her legs feel frozen.
"Are you all right?"
No, she isn't all right.
"Y-yes," she says. An awful cramp assails her lower limbs, and her stomach squeaks out another burning protest.
"You don't look all right." The man's voice is deep, and yet it sounds young. She reckons he may be a student or something. "Would you like to come in while I call you a cab? You're freezing."
"No thanks. I'll be going off soon."
She tries to stand up again, but falls to the ground in a heap.
"Shit," he says.
Her mind is in a semi-glazed fugue as she feels his arms scooping her up. His parka is damp and shiny, but his body warmth still permeates through the layers of clothing to heat up her skin. She wants to say "No" again, but she is too tired. She can feel his breath on her hair, and he smells of good, clean water.
She lets him carry her in his arms through the door, which opens to reveal a brightly lit hallway. She vaguely takes in her surroundings - a stairway, bannisters, cream walls - as he carries her up and up and up. Then she closes her heavy eyelids again and surrenders her fate to him.
The apartment lounge is warm. This is the first thing she notices as her chilled skin begins to flush with the sudden change of temperature. She is seated on a battered brown couch with a slash sticky tape covering one armrest.
The man who has carried her inside sheds his wet parka.
"You want to take off your wet clothes? You're going to catch pneumonia this way," he says.
In the ceiling light, she has a good look at him - a really good look at him for the first time.
He is a young man of about twenty . . . twenty-one, thereabouts. Handsome. No, he is much more than handsome. In fact, he is someone she might describe as extraordinarily beautiful.
He has large eyes that are mud-green in the yellow light. They swirl enchantingly with highlights of other colors: blue, red, gold, purple. His hair is chestnut brown and"slightly shaggy. He is lean and very tall. His fine boned features are not perfect, but they lend his face a startling contrast of sharply delineated lines that are very arresting to gaze upon. His is a face that you would look at twice and linger, studying every nuance on it with great scrutiny.
He wears a simple white T-shirt and jeans underneath his parka. His hair is wet at his forelocks but dry at the back and sides as a result of his parka's hood.
Shaking off her bedazzlement, she takes in the rest of her surroundings. The apartment has large glass windows that are currently dark with night, but would have allowed in plenty of light during the day. There are no curtains. Outside, the rain patters on, the drops of water lit by the golden haloes of the street lamps.
Scattered everywhere are canvasses and easels and paint pots and brushes. Some of the canvasses are half-completed. They swirl with colors and impressions of half-scenes. A pungent smell of turpentine permeates the air, causing her nose to twitch slightly. The floor is linoleum, and covered with a large plastic tarp.
There does not appear to be much furniture, except for a single white table and two mismatched chairs near a tiny kitchenette where a kettle, a small refrigerator and a smaller stove reside.
The man comes over and bends down to peer at her face.
"You don't look too good," he pronounces with concern. "I'll call a doctor."
"No," she says quickly. "No doctors. I'm all right. I'm just a little tired."
"I have a robe if you want to dry your clothes. You can borrow one of my T-shirts as well. The bathroom is over there." He points to a half-open door. "You really need to get out of those clothes."
"All right," she says in a small voice.
He pauses, as if contemplating something. "Don't worry. I'm not dangerous or anything. I'm not going to touch you. I just want to help. My name is Devon. What's yours?"
"Abby," she says in a daze.
It's a reflex. Was that so wise? Perhaps she shouldn't have given him her real name. But she will be out of here soon, and it won't matter. She hopes.
"Come with me, Abby. I'll get you some clothes. Can you walk? Are you on . . . something?" His green eyes are dubious again. Perhaps he is afraid she would OD right in his apartment.
"No, I'm not on anything. I'm just hungry."
"When is the last time you ate?"
"I can't remember."
"Wait here."
He vanishes into a room which she presumes is the bedroom, and returns a minute later with a T-shirt and a pair of baggy shorts.
"I don't know if these will fit you, but you can try them on," he says.
"Thanks."
She takes them. He eyes her expectantly as she stands on her feet, wobbling slightly. He catches hold of her arms before she can teeter and fall.
