Chapter 2 Bitsy #2
She drove three blocks over to a 24-hour gas station.
It was one of those sprawling, lonely places lit by harsh LED floods that made everything look surgical and cold.
Bitsy parked far away from the front doors, tucked in the shadows near the air-compressor station where the light didn't quite reach.
She grabbed her small duffel bag from the floorboards—the one containing her single change of clothes, a bar of soap in a plastic case, and her two-in-one shampoo—and headed inside.
The clerk was a teenager with glazed eyes and headphones on, completely oblivious as she slipped toward the back. Bitsy ducked into the single-stall bathroom and turned the deadbolt, the metallic clack of the lock providing a brief, flickering sense of security.
The bathroom smelled of urine and old cigarettes, but the water in the sink ran hot.
She stripped off her stained apron and the polyester shirt that felt like it was fused to her skin after the double shift.
Shivering in the damp air, she moved with the practiced, frantic speed of someone who knew exactly how much time she had before a knock came at the door.
She leaned over the small porcelain sink, wetting her long, black hair and lathering it with the cheap shampoo.
The water ran a murky gray down the drain, taking the grease, the smell of burnt bacon, and the weight of Frank’s yelling with it.
She used a handful of rough, brown paper towels to scrub her body as best she could.
It wasn't a shower, but it was a way to wash away the grime of the city.
When she was done, she dressed in a clean, oversized gray hoodie and a pair of thick leggings, her wet hair dripping cold tracks down her back.
She looked at herself in the cracked mirror. Her blue eyes were huge in her pale face, her skin almost translucent under the flickering fluorescent light.
After wiping down the sink so no trace of her remained, she slipped back out to the car.
By the time she stepped back out to the car, she was clean, but the dampness of her hair made the night air feel like a blade.
She drove toward the 24-hour grocery store lot, navigating the late-night lull with an anxious eye on her mirrors.
This was the most dangerous part of her day—the transition from the public eye into absolute isolation.
She parked the Honda in the far back corner where the light from the towering halogen poles grew thin, sliding the vehicle into a shadow between a heavy concrete cart corral and the perimeter fence.
She didn't leave her gear in the car; she couldn't risk a break-in while she was gone, choosing instead to haul the heavy duffle with her as she wrapped herself into the dark.
She climbed into the back seat and set up her bed. She’d removed the passenger headrest and reclined the seat flat, creating a narrow, cushioned platform. She propped up her black foam-board window covers, sealing herself into a dark, private cocoon.
She sat there in the dark for a moment, her stomach growling. She reached for the bag Jake had given her, pulling out a burger that was already turning cold. She ate in silence, watching the condensation from her breath start to fog the only small sliver of glass she hadn't covered.
She looked at her laptop. It was a dead piece of equipment in her hands. No bars. No signal. The city’s public Wi-Fi didn't reach this far, and she couldn't afford a data plan—not when every cent went toward gas and the hope of eventually getting out of Bridgeport.
The car was her sanctuary, but it was a lonely one. It was just a metal box that smelled like cold fries and damp hair.
Her eyes drifted toward the towering silhouette of the condemned office building three blocks away. Somewhere in the guts of that concrete ghost was a junction box that bled a signal so strong it felt like a heartbeat.
She wasn't going there tonight. She was too tired, her legs still throbbing from the double shift, and the walk across the vacant lots felt too long.
She pulled a heavy wool blanket over her shoulders, but the dampness of her hair still sent a sharp shiver down her spine.
The laptop on her lap remained dark—a cold, empty mirror reflecting the pale outline of her face.
There would be no escape into a gold ballroom tonight, no vibrant colors to drown out the gray chill of Bridgeport.
There was only the quiet of the car, the ache in her bones, and the heavy knowledge that she had to do it all over again in less than six hours.
She laid her head down on her rolled-up hoodie, staring at the dark ceiling of the Honda.
Somewhere out there, beyond the cracked dashboard and the shadows of the alley, the wealthy people of Bridgeport were stepping into showers that didn't run out of hot water.
They were closing their eyes in beds that didn't have a gear shift poking into their ribs, completely oblivious to the world she had to navigate just to keep breathing.
The thought should have made her angry, but it just made her feel small. Like a glitch in a system that was working perfectly for everyone but her.
Bitsy closed her eyes, the cold of the night air slowly seeping through the floorboards. She drifted off to the sound of distant sirens, dreaming of a world where she didn't have to be a ghost to survive.