At the corner of 9th and Jefferson, he saw her.

She was standing under a half burned sign that read LIQUOR TO GO, smoking with the manner of someone who had no intention of apologizing for what she was doing. She was slight, wearing denim shorts, a white T shirt, and hair dyed lighter than her skin could really carry. Pretty, yes, but not in that bright, cinematic way. Pretty in a tired way. Like a face that had learned to set itself properly in front of strangers even when everything inside it was wrecked.