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I walk back to the Entrance. I know she is either here or she has been here. I know someone has seen her. I examine each person examine them closely. She would avoid the pimps because she could make her money without them. The Dealers I have seen don’t deal what she uses they offered me pot or meth or low-grade smack. Her goal would be to get high or get Home. I know she is either here or she has been here. I know someone has seen her. I know. I stare. I know. Stare.

I keep looking, looking, looking. My eyes settle on two Boys sitting on a bench. They are about twelve. They are wearing huge baggy jeans, thick down jackets that hide their bodies, hats on backward with the brims facing down. The bench is in front of a Bathroom and provides views of the entire Bus Station. I watch them. They are what I think they are. I know what they’re doing.

I walk across the Room. As I approach the Boys, they pretend not to notice me, but I know they are looking at me as carefully as I am looking at them. I stop in front of the Bathroom door. As I do one of them quickly and briefly looks at the other. The other acknowledges the look. The looks let me know I’m right.

I open the door. It immediately smells like piss and shit and human rot. Two steps through a short, dark, dirty Hall and there is another door. I open it and the smell is stronger. I step into a foul Bathroom. Cracked, stained tiles cover the floor. They were once white, but now they’re brown. Shattered mirrors hang above sinks filled with stagnant water. Urinals run along one wall. All of them are full of yellow piss, in one lies a disintegrating shoe. I look at a line of Stalls. None of them have doors, there is graffiti covering the beaten wood walls. I see a pair of shoes beneath the last in the line. They are new shoes, expensive basketball shoes. I speak.

What’s up?

I hear a voice. Deep and thick like a sledgehammer with Ghetto inflections.

What do you need?

I need to talk to you.

I hear a chuckle. I hear movement. I see the shoes step forward and I look up and I see a man emerge from behind the wall of the Stall. He is about twenty. His head is shaved. He has a thin goatee and he wears the same style of clothing as the Boys on the bench. He looks at me, top to bottom, sizes me up. He speaks.

What’s up?

I’m looking for someone. Hoping you can help me.

Who you looking for?

A Girl. A young, white Girl. Long black hair and blue eyes. She was wearing an Army coat.

His head stays still, but his eyes move quickly and unconsciously to the upper left.

I ain’t seen her.

I stare at him.

Yes, you have.

He starts walking toward me.

You calling me a Liar?

I don’t move.

I’m not calling you anything.

His voice rises.

You calling me a motherfucking Liar?

Where is she?

He takes another step forward. His eyes slide quickly to the left and back at me.

I don’t know.

We’re face-to-face, inches apart. I can feel his breath on my cheeks. I stand my ground, but keep my hands at my sides.

Tell me where she is.

He smiles. It is not a friendly smile.

Why you gotta find this Girl?

She’s in trouble. She needs help.

What do I get if I tell you what I know?

The satisfaction of knowing you did the right thing.

He chuckles.

That ain’t worth much to me.

I don’t have anything else.

You gotta give me something.

Like what?

How much money you got?

None.

You got a gun?

Nope.

You got a car?

I laugh.

I don’t have shit, man.

He laughs and he looks away. He looks back, looks me up and down, and he stares in my eyes. I hold his stare, but not in an aggressive way. I hold it passively and in a relaxed manner, without fear and with patience.

How you know to come in here and find me?

Because I saw your boys out front.

And how’d you know I’d have the rock?

Because I used to smoke the rock and I used to sell the rock.

And now you trying to help this Girl get off it?

Yeah.

I lost a Sister to it once.

I’m sorry.

I knew better than to try and make her quit.

You should have tried.

Can’t nobody quit. The shit’s