Anonymity by Janna McMahan Page B

and wrestled open the corroded square access door. A putrid reek hit her in the face. Inside she found an enormous refried bean can and thanked God not everyone in Austin recycled. She shoved the door shut to cover her tracks.
    The can added more than a foot to her height. She'd always been tall, nearly five ten, which had helped her pass as older on the streets. Standing on the can, she could easily get a grip and swing a leg up and over. Bars never opened early, so she was sure she could be gone before anybody showed up in the morning. She'd have to remember to hide the can when she left.
    She threw her bedroll and pack over the fence. Man up , she whispered. Three agonizing tries later, she dangled inside the fence. Her feet touched a wooden bench, and she dropped down.
    It wasn't a large area, just big enough for half-a-dozen tables. Flea market chairs were scattered around a fire dish. Her heart leapt! A fire! In a corner lived a poorly stacked rick of wood and a pile of kindling. She used a long, thin piece of firewood to poke at the ashes gathered in the bottom of the metal saucer. A glimmer of orange hope appeared.
    She needed to stoke the coals. She searched for newspaper to no avail. She opened her pack and pawed through her things with her uninjured hand. She could feel her heart pulsing in her other hand. It was painful, but she could live with it.
    She poked through her pack but found nothing. She rarely carried anything that wasn't absolutely necessary. She could go through the dumpster or take stacks of local papers that always lived in racks along the sidewalk, but climbing back out sounded painful. Then her fingers touched her library book.
    Survival instincts told her to sacrifice the book, but her heart told her that it would be worse than stealing, worse than lying. Books had been her closest companions, her escape from misery. And she knew if she burned it that she would never be allowed to check out another.
    Besides, if she burned Twilight what would she use to entertain herself tonight? Reading held her rapid thoughts at bay until she could fall asleep. Without a good story to follow, her own tumbling, twisting thoughts kept her awake all night, leaving her exhausted and depressed the next day.
    Depression was like an ugly uninvited friend that came for an extended visit, familiar but unwanted. Depression allowed her to finally sleep, but it wasn't the type of sleep that nourished. It was a sucking black hole that made her forget to eat, made her immobile until somebody literally forced her to move along.
    So she tried to stay happy, to focus on the positive, like when she had a good group of friends to hang with, when somebody gave her a real meal, or she found an animal buddy for a while. Lorelei didn't worry about her moods. She had come to realize that hers was a common cycle of the destitute—hopefulness, frenzied restlessness, depression. Nobody was in control of their emotions all the time.
    At the moment, Lorelei was content with her situation. She had found an ideal setup—a private spot where she wouldn't have to sleep on the ground. She decided not to burn the library book. She could make fire from far less than she had to work with here. She'd built fires from practically nothing at that brat camp her parents had sent her to.
    Lorelei found a Naugahyde chair with a hole in the seat. She picked at the cushion stuffing and out came a wad of curly fibers perfect for growing a fire. She gathered all the stuffing she could without it showing. The last thing she wanted was to ruin a sweet spot by calling attention to her presence.
    She decided to use one of her soiled shirts for fuel too, just in case the fibers didn't have enough burn life. She gathered kindling, then a handful of larger pieces of wood, and finally a couple of logs from the stack in the corner. She stuffed her shirt and the fibers in the bottom of the fire dish, added the kindling, then a few larger pieces of wood. She built