ARIEL

PART I

I was sitting in front of my tent waiting for the Salvation Army shelter doors to open when Ariel walked into my life. She appeared like a ghost, strolling through the maze of camping tents and cardboard shelters lining the sidewalks along Owens Avenue. I first noticed her smile. It seemed out of place; not many of the homeless living near the shelter often smiled.

She walked past me, then stopped, turned around, and stooped in front of me. “You’re awfully pretty,” she said, flashing a brilliant smile. I laughed and said,

“Don’t you mean handsome? I am a guy after all.” She cocked her head, her captivating smile widening.

“No, I meant to say pretty. Beautiful eyes, you have. What’s your name, pretty boy?” I smiled back, surprised by her boldness, and asked,

“What’s yours?”

“Oh, I don’t know. “Let’s see, I guess you can call me Ariel.”

“Like in Disney’s Ariel?”

“Yep.”

“Really. Is that your for sure name?”

“It is today. So, what do they call you, besides pretty boy?”

“Well, my birth certificate reads Scott Lee Scott. Most folks just call me Scotty.”

“You have two first names?”

“My Mom. She thought it was clever. I loved her to death, but clever she wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t?”

“Cancer. A long time ago.” Her smiled faded.”

“Sorry.”

“Yep, it happens.”

She regarded me for a few seconds then held out a hand and said, “How do you do, Scott Scott.” I reached out to shake and she grabbed my hand and hauled me to my feet. “Let’s go,” she said. “Walk with me. Down to the Cemetery.” I hesitated, puzzled by her assertiveness.

“My stuff,” I said. She glanced toward my tent and frowned. I could tel she was unimpressed.

“I wouldn’t sweat it,” she said.

“But all my stuff is in there.”

“So? If anybody bothers it, I’ll give you some of my stuff. Come on, Scotty Scott, walk with me.”

It was almost as if I didn’t have a choice. She gripped my hand and urged me along. I glanced back over my shoulder toward my tent, and she gave my hand a gentle but meaningful tug.

We walked at a brisk pace, weaving our way through tattered tents and fabricated structures made of wood and plastic and various discarded containers. Many shopping carts, most loaded with blankets and clothes and plastic bags containing who knows what, blocked portions of the sidewalk, making it necessary to walk in the street at times. The air was redolent with the smells of the indigent. I had become somewhat used to the odors of homeless encampments, but I had resigned myself not to ignore my personal hygiene, at least to the extent I was able to do something about it.

Ariel appeared to be conscientious as to her hygiene as well. Her clothes, though not particularly stylish, we’re clean and free of wrinkles. Off brand jeans and Reebok sneakers well scuffed and tied neatly with bright yellow laces. A hot pink backpack hung limply over one shoulder. She had the appearance of a schoolgirl on her way to freshman orientation.

She glanced over at me and for the first time since meeting her she wasn’t smiling. “How do I look?” she asked abruptly. Taken aback, I said,’

“Um, you…you look fine.”

And she did. Not beautiful, by any stretch, but pleasant on the eyes. It was her smile that projected her attractiveness. Now that she had set it aside, her appeal had faded noticeably. Not in an off-putting way, but in a way that caused me to question my willingness to abandon my worldly possessions to accompany this enigmatic stranger.

My comment that she looked fine appeared not to convince her. The smile that had defined her from the start seemed reluctant to reappear. Only a few minutes had passed since meeting her, but I found myself missing that radiant smile. Covid masks had taken everyone’s smile for a time. And when the masks came off, the pain and misery the lockdown had caused had robbed many of the ability, if not the desire, to once again smile.

Ariel continued to look at me, her dark eyes pensive and focused.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Twenty-seven.”

A faint smile resurfaced. Not a full-on grin, but the corners of her lips turned up slightly.

“And you?” I asked, immediately sorry I had violated the rule about not asking a woman her age.

“Let’s just say I’m legal,” she said. And for a brief moment, she graced me with a generous smile. But only for a moment. Then she was stone-faced again, as if concentrating on a hard to solve math equation.

“How long have you been in Vegas?” she asked. “I know you’re not from here, nobody’s from here.”

“Almost four years,” I said. “And before you ask, I’m originally from Ohio. Dayton.”

“So, what’s your story? Is it a particularly sad one?” I glanced over at her, not sure if I should be so forthcoming with this complete stranger. But she had the kind of personality that made me want to trust her.

“I guess you mean how I ended up homeless?” I asked. She nodded and I said,” I was working as a repair tech on Casino soft count machines. Doing pretty good, too, until freakin’ Covid hit. The Casinos basically all shut down, so they didn’t have much cash flow to count, and no need to run the counting machines. Which meant no need for a repair tech. Got laid off, run out if cash pretty quick, had to let my apartment go, got my car repoed, and ended up here. How about you, what’s your story?”

She looked away toward the street. “I don’t think I want to talk about that right now.” I thought to ask her why, but the pained look in her eyes moved me to reconsider.

We walked on in silence to the intersection of Owens and Las Vegas Boulevard. The No Walk sign was lit and flashing red, so we stood with four other unhoused folks and waited for the light to change. She held my hand tightly, her nails pressed against my palm. I could feel the heat of her body permeating the flesh of my hand. Her sweat mingled with mine and I became certain her grip would slip away at any moment.

But she held on tight, and the light changed, and we proceeded across Owens to Las Vegas Boulevard. We approached Woodlawn Cemetery on the left and she slowed her pace. The property was guarded by a five-foot-high stone fence topped with ornate metal crosshatch bars. The barrier ran all along the edge of Las Vegas Boulevard and turned west on Owens Avenue before terminating at Owens and Pecos Street.

We followed the stone wall westward toward Pecos, careful not to step on some people sleeping on the sidewalk. It dawned on me that I should ask her where we were headed. “You’ll see,” she said. Then she placed my arm in the crook of her arm and trudged me along like Dorothy and the scarecrow on the yellow brick road. I of course bore no resemblance whatsoever to the Scarecrow. She, on the other hand, with a little imagination, could pass for a slightly thinner, more cosmopolitan Dorothy.

As we strolled along, navigating around unhoused people and their temporary structures, I began to question my decision to accompany this mysterious woman. A woman with a strong grip and bewitching smile. Where was she taking me? And why did she want me to go with her? Was she up to no good? There were at least a hundred other people camped along Owens Avenue she could have hooked up with. Why me?

I was shocked to learn she was clairvoyant. “Do you know why I picked you out?” she asked. I was stunned to silence. Did she just read my mind?

She went on speaking, her eyes bright and attentive. “I saw how pretty you were,” she said. “Okay, then, handsome. There’s a lot of ugliness out here on these streets. I just wanted to see something pretty up close for a change. I wanted to talk to someone with a pretty face and give them a smile, and…and hope that they might smile back. Are you disappointed?” She stared at me, almost defiantly, and I quickly found my voice.

“No, of course not. How did you know what I was thinking?” She gave me a sly, impatient look.

“You wear your thoughts on your face,” she said. “A furrowed brow, pursed lips, maybe a furtive glance. You’re an open book, Scotty Scott.”

I must have tensed involuntarily because she squeezed my arm even tighter. “Almost there,” she said airily. I kept my mouth shut while keeping pace with her surprisingly quick stride.

We approached a section of wall that had seen better days. She steered us in that direction, and I followed along, as dutiful as any puppy in training.

There was a four-foot section of railing that had been torn loose and tossed aside onto the sidewalk. “We’re going through there,’ she said, adjusting the straps of her backpack with her free hand. I felt the urge to ask why but thought it best to think of something else. She could read minds after all. Well, at least faces.

She let go of my arm and shimmied through the hole with little effort. Last chance to run. I snatched away the thought before it was fully conceived. At this point my curiosity was peaked beyond measure. I had to know what this imponderable woman was up to.

“Come on,” she said, extending her hand. I, being almost twice her size, hesitated, unsure of my ability to fit through the narrow hole in the fence. “Come on, Scotty Scott, we’re burning daylight,” she taunted.

Reluctantly, slowly, cautiously, I squeezed my six foot one hundred- and seventy-five-pound frame through the opening. She clapped her hands gleefully and said, “Yay. Yay, yay Scotty Scott, you did it.” The beautiful smile had returned, and I relished in its calming effect.

We were now on the other side of the wall standing on lush green grass still damp from an early morning watering. “This way,” she said. She didn’t take my hand this time, but I followed her dutifully, somewhat mesmerized by her graceful gait.

We topped a small rise, and I saw rows and rows of tombstones spread out before us like misaligned dominoes. She seemed to have a particular destination in mind. We crossed a gravel road and cut across a plot of ground on the southern edge of the cemetery. The grave markers were not as plentiful there. I again wondered what purpose she had in mind for our little excursion.

The sun lay hot on our backs, and I was just beginning to feel the cautionary tingle of sunburn on the back of my neck. “Ariel, where the hell are we going?” I asked, a little more irritably than I would have liked. She didn’t answer. She simply pointed down the hill and picked up her pace.

We arrived at the south wall of the Cemetery, and she stopped abruptly. I stopped as well and waited to see what she would do next. She stood very still looking down at the ground beneath her feet. She made no sound, but I could tell by the gentle shaking of her backpack she was crying.

I had a sudden feeling that I was in the wrong place. the place where I stood was special, a private place that I had no business intruding upon.

“Ariel,” I said. There was an expectant inflection in my tone. She swatted a tear with the back of her hand. She continued to look down at her feet, and I noticed for the first time she was looking at an two inlaid grave markers. They were white granite, smooth, and chamfered on the edges. Two names, along with birth and death dates, were etched indelibly into the center of each stone.

Robert Lee Larson

June 9, 1995 — January 1, 2020

Loving husband and father

I looked at the second name. And suddenly was very sad.

Abigail Ariel Larson

August 12, 2019 – January 4; 2020

My Princess Forever

Ariel reached for my hand, and I allowed her to take it. And then, quite to my surprise, pressed her face against my chest and wrapped her arms around me. To say I was taken aback would be an understatement. Who was this child-like woman clinging to me as if she was drowning and I was a life raft adrift in a turbulent sea.

“I need to sit down,” she said.

We moved to a concrete bench a few feet from the head stone and sat down. She was no longer crying, but tears seemed possible at any moment. I sat beside her in silence, absently stroking her hand. A few moments later she said, “Sorry about the crying. I thoughtI was over that sort of stuff.”

I still wasn’t sure why she was upset, but it seemed reasonable to assume it had something to do with the graves she had stood over. I said something arcane like,

“No need for an apology…no need at all.”

She lifted the hem of her T-shirt and daubed gently at her eyes. She was wearing a pink bra with a tiny bow in the center. I remember thinking, she really doesn’t need that thing.

I thought it best not to ask why she was crying. She seemed to sense my reticence. Once again, the clairvoyance. Spooky, to say the least.

“Guess you’re wondering who's in those graves,” she said. Her tone was quite solemn now. I doubted I would be seeing a smile anytime soon.

She took a deep breath and said, “They’re my family. My husband and my baby daughter.” A single tear slid down her cheek and dropped onto her clasped hands. I felt like a jerk asking what had happened to them, but it seemed the only logical thing to do.

“They were killed by a hit and run driver,” she said. “On New Year’s Day. On fucking New Year’s Day.” She went back to the T-shirt, wiping away tears and a runny nose.

I supposed I should say something, but every thought I came up with seemed lame and not at all helpful.

She didn’t seem to notice my distress. “We were at a stop light,” she said. “Robert, Abby, and me. This truck ran the light in front of us and crashed into the driver’s side panel. Robert was killed outright. Abby lingered for three days in the NICU. And…and then she was gone.”

Ariel took another deep breath then exhaled slowly. ‘“I was hurt, too,” she said, barely above a whisper. She pulled up her left pant leg and worked the denim above her knee. I looked at her leg, stitched with stark purple scars, and felt a tight clenching in my gut. She pulled back her hair. I could see a long jagged scar behind her left ear. It looked as if it had healed badly.

“Damn, Ariel,” I said. “I…I’m sorry. Damn.” She acknowledged my feeble attempt at comfort with a gentle squeeze if my hand.

“We didn’t have much health insurance,” she said. I had a sense she heeded to get her story out in detail. Maybe it was the first time she had talked about it to someone. Why that someone turned out to be me I’ll never know.

“The hospital bills were over a hundred thousand dollars.,” she said. “My share was thirty-three thousand six hundred and fourteen dollars and twelve cents.”

She laughed suddenly; a shrill trilling that made the hair on my arm stand up.

She began to cry again. This time she was sobbing, as if her tears could flush the pain and agony from her soul.

I didn’t know what to do or say. Hell, I was no good at dealing with my own demons. What good could I do for her. But I felt the need to do something, so I placed an arm around her shoulder and just held her until the sobs settled into gentle sniffles.

She wiped her face again and continued talking. I had my doubts that it would do anything but further upset her, but she seemed determined to bear her soul. “Of course I couldn’t pay it,” she said. ‘Thirty-three thousand? Hell, Robert and I didn’t have thirty-three hundred, much less thirty-three thousand. Anyway, I used the insurance money from the totaled car to pay for the funerals. Robert had a small accidental life insurance policy, seventy-five K. I paid the rent on our apartment until the moratorium kicked in, then I stopped paying. Just as soon as it ended, I was out on my ass.”

She paused to blow her nose, and I asked,

‘How have you been living since then?”

“I stayed at the Safe House shelter in Henderson for a while,” she said. “But it’s too far away from some of the other services available in Vegas. Besides, they only house you on a temporary basis. I’ve been sleeping at the Salvation Army shelter on Judson Street lately.”

“What do you do for money!” I asked. Her tale of woe, similar to my own, was beginning to intrigue me.

“I kept back some of the insurance money,” she said. “I sell plasma, too. I get by. How about you, how do you finance yourself!”

“My grandma sends me a prepaid Visa card once a month or so,” I said. “It ain’t much, but it keeps me in groceries.”

She slipped off her backpack and fished a bottle of water from a side pocket. I saw a flash of silver under a wad of tissues. “Is that what I think it is?” I asked.

“Oh, that. That’s my little protector.”

She reached into the backpack and came out with a small chrome pistol.

“Whoa,’ I said. “Is that thing loaded?” She looked at me strangely, as if it was the dumbest question she had ever heard.

“Of course it’s loaded. Wouldn’t be worth a shit if it wasn’t.”

I alternated my gaze from her eyes to the pistol and back to her eyes. She still held the same expression of perplexity.

“What’s the matter, Scotty Scott?” she said. “Ain’t you ever seen a gun?”

Of course I had. Two years in the Army. Detailed firearm training. I knew a lot about many types of weapons. The one she was holding was a Taurus .38 revolver. The faux pearl handles and chrome finish gave it the appearance of a toy, but I knew full well how much damage a .38 slug could do.

“Robert gave it to me for Christmas,” she said. “For protection, you know. He was out of town quite a bit: He was a truck driver. Not cross country, but local here in Nevada, and northern Arizona.”

I listened to her talk, grateful for the fact she was no longer crying. Her tears had unsettled me. A woman crying had always affected me in a peculiar way. I would get the sense that I should do or say something to make the sadness go away. It was irrational if me to think like that, but I was never able to shake the feeling that I was complicit in causing someone else’s pain. I have come to accept it as just another one of my many quirks.

She placed the pistol back into the backpack and opened the water bottle cap. “Care for a sip?” she asked. I shook my head and pointed toward the backpack.

“You sure you know how to use that thing?” She took a generous sip of water and said,

“Yep. Cock the hammer, point, squeeze the trigger, and pray.”

“Pray? Pray for what?”

“Pray that I don’t miss. And pray for the person whose getting shot. You know, for their souls and stuff. Of course, I would never shoot anyone unless they were trying to hurt me. I would hate to have to take someone’s life. I think it would devastate me.”

She fell silent, sitting very still, slowly rotating the water bottle in her hand. I said nothing myself, content to let her reflect on her thoughts.

A moment later, she looked up at me and sighed. The sadness in her eyes was hard to look at. It was amazing the transformation I had seen in her since entering the Cemetery. Gone was the flirtatious girl with the infectious smile and energetic spirit. It seemed the visiting of her family’s grave site had sucked the joy from her being and replaced it with a depressive aura of melancholy.

I felt I should come up with something encouraging to say that might brighten her mood, but nothing profound came to mind.

“You ever read Shakespeare?” she asked. “You know, Hamlet, and such?”

“Yeah,” I said. “In high school. Why do you want to know?”

“I was just thinking. About Hamlet’s soliloquy. To be or not to be. What dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil.” She turned her eyes toward me. They were misty with tears. “Do you think we dream when we’re dead?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said plainly. “I try not to think about such things.” She looked over at the graves and shook her head.

‘Maybe we should,” she said. “Maybe we should not only think about it but eagerly embrace the possibility.”

The cement bench suddenly became quite uncomfortable on my backside. At least that was the excuse I gave for standing to my feet. “It’s getting late,” I said. “They’ll be serving supper over at the Mission soon. You wanna join me for a meal? I think they’re serving hot dogs tonight.”

She seemed not to hear me. Her focus was centered on the gravestones. “Ariel,” I said. She looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “I’m gonna head out. You can come with me if you like.”

She stood to her feet and walked to the grave site and knelt in front of the stone markers. “I’m leaving now,” she said looking intently at the names on the stone. “I’m leaving, but I’ll be back soon. I love you sweet husband. Mommy loves you, too, Abby. Never forget, Mommy loves her little princess so so much.”

She turned to look at me. “Abby misses me too,” she said. “ She says she loves me and misses me so so much.”

Concerned, I peered closely into her eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I think so. I’m sorry I used you.”

“Used me?”

“I didn’t want to come here alone. Can you understand that?” I wasn’t sure I did, but I nodded and said,

“Yes, given the circumstances. And I don’t feel at all used.”

“Good,” she said. Then she hugged me and kissed my cheek.

We walked from the Cemetery back toward the encampment without talking much. She hardly smiled, and I found myself wondering if I had misjudged her. Was she just using me as she said? Was that beautiful smile and sweet spirit she’d shown earlier just an act? It made me a little sad to think it might be true.

She pulled out her crystal ball once again and read my thoughts.

“I really do like you, Scotty Scott,” she said. “You have a calming spirit, and an aura of hope around you. We need that, we need hope. Do you get what I’m saying?”

“You’re starting to freak me out a little bit, Ariel,” I said. “How do you always know what I’m thinking?” She flipped her hand over her upturned palm mimicking the turning of pages. “That obvious, huh,” I muttered.

“Yep. It’s part of your charm.” She smiled, but not very brightly.

We arrived at the front of the Mission, and I once again invited her to eat with me. She declined, offering instead to share her Cheetos and Red Bull with me.

“Next time maybe,” I said. She made a tsk-tsk sound.

“You sure you want there to be a next time?”

“Sure, why not,” I said. That prompted a quick smile.

“So, you do like being used.”

“I like you. You seem to like me. Maybe we can use each other. Just a thought.”

“Maybe,” she said. “A girl like me gets around.” She said it in a playful tone, but I saw a touch of sadness in her eyes. Maybe the getting around was something she had to do to get by, not something she really wanted to do. The thought left me a little dispirited.

“Well, goodbye, Scotty Scot,” she said, extending her hand. The flicker of sadness had gone out of her eyes, and she was once again smiling. I took her hand, and we shook, slowly and deliberately, as if neither of us wanted to let go.

She turned then and walked away, disappearing into the deepening twilight as mysteriously as she had appeared that morning.

PART II

I didn’t see Ariel again for three days. And it was a miserable three days. Monsoon season was in full advent; it rained steadily for two days in a row keeping me prisoner in my leaky not so good smelling tent.

When the cloud cover finally broke, I scurried out of my tent like the groundhog Punxsutawney Phil hoping to see a nice mild day instead of rain or oppressive heat. Instead, I saw Ariel a few feet from my tent sitting astride a bicycle. She had on a floppy, gardening type hat and a plastic slicker two sizes too big for her. “Well, Scotty Scot, I see you haven’t drowned yet,” she said. I think she was smiling, but the floppy hat hid most of her features in shadow.

She pushed the bike in front of my tent with her feet and attempted to dismount. It was a boy's bike, and she had a little trouble getting her leg over the cross bar. “You need some help?” I asked playfully. She grinned and hopped off the seat with the grace of a cat.

“Looks like you’re the one who needs help,” she said. “That tent looks like it’s about to fall apart.”

Man, I thought, I sure missed her voice. And her charm. And her smile. Mostly her smile.

“Yeah, it’s a piece of junk for sure,” I said, looking at the sagging tent. “But I ain’t gonna be in it much longer.”

“Oh,” she said. “You have another place to sleep?”

“Not yet. But I don’t plan on being a street bum forever,” I said. “I’m tired of this living homeless crap.”

“I know,” she said. “A lot of us are tired of it.”

“Where’d you get the bike?” I asked, changing the subject. “You didn’t steal it did you?” She knew I was joking, but she feigned indignation, for effect, I suppose.

“I bought it at the thrift store, smarty,” she said. “Six bucks. It’s missing one if the pedals, but I do alright with just one.”

We stood there in the rising humidity looking at each other as if waiting for one of us to speak. Finally, I asked, “Now that the rain’s stopped, what do you have planned for today?”

“I’m on my way to the library over on Bonanza,” she said. “They have WiFi there. And A.C. You need to come with me.”

I was eager to get out of that dilapidated tent for a while, but hanging out in a library was not my first choice of how to spend the day. But the chance to spend it with Ariel was more than a good reason to forgo my personal preferences.

“It’s quite a ways over there,” I said. “Are we gonna take the bus, or do you plan on peddling that one pedal bike all the way?”

“I thought we’d walk,” she said. “I can leave the bike in your tent.”

“What if it gets stolen?”

“It’s six bucks, Scotty Scott. Don’t sweat it. You worry way too much.”

We stowed the bicycle in my tent and headed up Las Vegas Boulevard toward Bonanza Road. As we walked, we chatted about the annoying rain and the accompanying humidity, and then she asked, “Wha did you mean you won’t be in that tent much longer?”

“I just made up my mind that I’m tired if this kind of life,” I said. “It ain’t no kind if life. It’s degrading, and depressing, and it’s not a way that anyone should live. You know what I mean?”

“Of course,” she said. “And I agree. One hundred percent. That’s why we’re going to the library today.” I looked at her, a bit confused.

“What’s the library got to do with anything?”

“You said you were a repair technician, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, unsure of her train of thought.

“We’re gonna use the computer at the library to fill out some online applications. Hopefully, someone will hire you and you can start to get your life back.”

I stopped in mid stride. She kept walking unaware of my reticence. “Why are you doing this?” I asked. She turned slowly and looked at me. The strengthening breeze pushed back the brim of her hat, and I saw an ugly bruise beneath her left eye. “What the hell?” I said.

She shrugged and took hold of my sleeve. “Come on, lazy bones, it’s getting’ hot out here. “

“Ariel,” I said. “What the hell happened to your face?” She touched her cheek gently and smiled. It wasn’t a true smile: forced, designed to deflect.

“Oh, clumsy me,” she said through mannequin lips. That bicycle. Missed the pedal once and took a tumble.”

I could tell she was lying. Though I’d known her only a short time, I knew enough about her to realize she wasn’t accustomed to being untruthful.

“Did someone hit you?” I asked plainly. The forced grin again.

“Of course not, silly.”

“Come on, Ariel, I know a knuckle bruise when I see one. Who hit you?” My insistent tone angered her. But only briefly. Tears formed in her eyes, and she let go of the air of denial.

“It was an accident,” she said, barely above a whisper. “He didn’t mean to do it. I messed up, I didn’t do what I was supposed to do.”

I could only stare at her, confused, conflicted. “Sometimes I lose focus,” she continued, staring down at the ground. “It’s really not a big deal, you know. Not a big deal at all.”

“Bullshit,” I said. “It damn sure is a big deal. Who was it that hit you? You said he, who is this, he?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh yes it does.”

She stepped close to me, her eyes hard, and said,”It does not matter. It doesn’t concern you. Now I’m going to the library. Are you coming with me, or not?”

“I want to know what happened to you,” I said.

She turned and began walking away toward the Boulevard. I couldn’t let her go just like that. “Wait!” I said, “I’ll go with you.” She stopped and waited for me to catch up. As I drew near, she took hold of the front of my shirt and said,

“If you’re gonna hang out with me you have to stop asking me questions. I like you, Scotty Scott, I like you a lot. Please don’t ruin things by pressuring me.”

I was reluctant to let it go. It was clear someone had abused her, but it was just as clear she didn’t want to talk about it. The thought of a guy punching her in the face, for whatever reason, made me boil inside. I didn’t want to lose her, though, so I kept my mouth shut and followed her to the library.

Inside we relaxed in air conditioning, drank bottled water, and perused the media room. The library staff kept a close eye on us, clearly uncomfortable with our presence. I guess street people mingling with the academics somehow threatened them.

An empty console became available, and Ariel hopped on the chair and brought up an employment website. “It’s a temp agency,” she said, typing away. “We’ll start there first. They tend to have jobs available fairly often, Vegas being a transient town and all.”

We spent the next hour filling in online applications. She added my Post Office box and her cell phone number as contact information. As we were finishing up a security guard circled us a couple of times and I could tell he was gearing up to kick us out. “Let’s go,” I said. “We’ve already submitted four apps. “Time to bail before Barney Fife gets testy.”

We left the library and headed back toward the shelter, talking very little. I wanted to know more about how she got the bruise on her face, but she wasn’t having it. So, we shuffled along the stifling sidewalk in silence.

Humidity pressed us, like Saran Wrap blanketing our skin. I could sense her beginning to fade.

“Let’s get something to drink,” I offered. “There’s a McDonalds around the corner.”

We ordered large cokes and shared an order of fries, then lingered in the air conditioning until the manager told us to buy something else or leave. I was accustomed to such treatment. No doubt Ariel was as well.

Arriving at my tent we discovered the flap standing open.

“Shit.”

Ariel’s bicycle was missing, as well as my stash of canned food and Gatorade. “I told you,” I said. “Didn’t I tell you some asshole would nick the bike if you left it?” She didn’t say anything for a while. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking until she surprised me by saying,

“Well, I hope they get some good use out of it.”

“Really?’ I said. “Really? I hope the bastard chokes on the ravioli and ramen they took.”

“That’s the wrong attitude, Scotty,” she said. “Karma has a way f getting her way. All in due course, my friend.”

I was in no mood for lectures. Theft of my property was something I wasn’t prepared to forgive so easily. It was the principal more than anything.

“That was my food stash for the month,” I said, “One of the assholes around here took it and I aim to get it back. Your bicycle, too.”

“You’ll never find who did it,” she said. “And I don’t care about the bike. It’s not a big deal, just let it go.”

Her benevolence, whether genuine or contrived, was beginning to irritate me. “I’m not letting it go, Ariel!”

“To hell with the damn bike! Let it go, Scotty.”

We stood staring at each other, both our jaws clenched in determination. Then out of the blue she said, “Do you want to sleep with me? I hope not, because I don’t want to sleep with you. Not that I don’t find you attractive, I do. I think you’re very pretty. But if we have sex we’ll lose something of our friendship. Do you understand what I’m talking about?” I didn’t, but I said I did, and she said,

“You’re the only friend I have. I need that in my life right now. I need…you.”

What could I say. Her tears touched me much more profoundly than I expected. My own tears surprised me as well. “Don’t cry,” she said softly. “I need you strong. Can you be strong for me, Scotty Scott?” I think I nodded, and she said, “I have to go now. I want to visit my baby, my Ariel. I want to tell her how muck I miss her and her daddy.”

“I’ll come with you,” I said, glad for the distraction. She shook her head.

“Not this time.” Then she wrapped her arms around me, rose up on her tiptoes, and looked me in the eye. “I want to thank you for being kind to me,” she said. “You didn’t have to be. You don’t know me, but you befriended me. And you gave me back a little hope in humanity again.”

Tears streamed down her face as she pressed her lips close to my ear. “ I don’t want to hurt you. But…I will. So, be strong, Scotty Scott. Stay strong.”

Before I could say anything, she walked away in the direction of the Cemetery.

Just before she turned a corner she called out, “Strong!”, and pumped her fist in the air.

I didn’t sleep a wink that night. A feeling that I could only describe as dread robbed me of any chance at peace. Ariel’s parting words lingered in my thoughts. I couldn’t get the image of her tears and whispered goodbye out of my mind. Something was disjointed, out of kilter, ominous. I had no real reason to think such thoughts, but I had learned long ago to trust my instinct. One needs such a quality to successfully survive on the streets.

As soon as daylight arrived, I headed down the Boulevard to look for her. The feeling of dread persisted, intensifying as the morning progressed. I asked some people camped along the sidewalks if they had seen her, but nobody had. Finally, an old lady said she saw Ariel walking by the Cemetery just before dawn.

I headed there, practically running, as if drawn by some indefinable force. As I crested the hill above her family’s graves, I sensed she was gone.

She lay between the two gravestones, the .38 pistol by her side. Her eyes were closed in death. A sweet smile parted her lips. She looked at peace. She looked…happy.

Her backpack lay open beside her. I reached inside and took out her wallet, a cheap plastic kid’s wallet.

Her ID said her name was Diana Nicole Larson. She was twenty-three years old.

I could say I was crushed, but why bother. No suitable adjective existed to describe my anguish, not in my mind anyway.

She owned a pay-as-you-go cell phone. I turned it on to call 911 and noticed she had messages, one addressed to me; an offer to schedule a job interview.

I wept.

PART III

October. Halloween.

I’ve been working a full-time job for two months now. I have an apartment. Not a very nice one, but it has a roof. For that, I am grateful.

At night I dream of Ariel. Diana, her name was Diana. I see her face, serene, calm, content. Even in death she had a smile. And yet memories of her trouble me. So many questions. So many missing pieces of the puzzle that was Diana Nicole Larson.

I miss her. Irrational, I know; I hardly knew her. I miss her smile, her beautiful smile.

Why did she take her life? Why was she so sad? The obvious, of course; the death of her husband and child. Then there was the bane of living on the streets. A woman, a young, vibrant woman faced danger that I never had to experience. I often think of the bruise on her face. Someone had abused her. No doubt someone she had given herself to in order to survive. The thought of it sickened my soul.

Most nights I lie awake asking myself questions I have no answers for. Why did she single me out? Did she have a purpose, or a goal of some sort? Did she find me just to help me get back on track, even though her own life was spiraling out of control?

No one came forward to claim her body, so the County paid for her cremation. They wanted to bury her remains in an unmarked grave, but I petitioned the coroner to give them to me. He seemed eager to get her off his hands. Just another indigent nobody costing the taxpayers.

I kept the box containing her remains in my tent for a while, then my apartment. I plan to keep them until New Years Day then scatter them over her husband and baby’s graves. I think she will like that.

Tricker-treaters at my door. Ghosts and superheroes and pirates galore. One little girl stepped forward in a cute Ariel costume. I tried not to cry. It didn’t work. She looked at me and smiled. I cried some more and gave her twice as much candy.

I will sleep well this night.

And dream of Ariel.