“Are you okay, lady?”

The voice comes from above me, and I look around in confusion. I don’t know where I am, don’t know what time it is. I don’t know anything.

Two teenage girls hover over me, their skinny bodies wrapped tightly in spandex, leather, and denim, all liberally studded with metal. They are concerned, though, their faces serious.

I want to assure them that I am fine, although the concrete is cold beneath me and my elbow is raw from its rough surface. It’s not like me to cause people worry, but I cannot make myself speak the words. It is as if my jaw is wired shut, my tongue made of lead. I shake my head and try to look composed, but I feel the tears on my cheeks. A downward glance at my hands and clothes reveals the reason for their concern. I am filthy. My plain black dress is rumpled and muddy, my stockings are snagged and torn, and I have lost a shoe.

How did I get here? For that matter, where is here? I glance at my surroundings, which after a moment, I recognize. Monroe Park. That explains nothing, only brings more questions. How long since Marta’s death, the last clear memory I can muster. I want to ask the girls what day it is, but nothing comes out. They look at each other uncertainly. Even sounds for my sorrow are missing. Silent tears, mute grief.

“Janie! What are you doing?”

They turn as two young men approach, each carrying a take-out bag from Burger King. One looks like a Kid Rock wanna-be, right down to the hat. The other is handsome and carries himself as if he is well aware of it.

They stop a few feet back from where the girls stand and I crouch. I can smell fries, and my stomach reacts with a lurch of hunger. How long since I have eaten?

“Get away from her. She’s probably got bugs.”

One of the girls takes a step away. The other, Janie, stands her ground. “She’s crying. We thought she needed help.”

“She needs help, all right,” Handsome says. “A shower and detox, for starters.”

“She looks cold.”

“There are places she can go. Janie, people like her don’t really want help. They just want your money so they can buy more booze or whatever.”

“C’mon,” the first boy says. “We got breakfast, but we gotta eat it before class. Old Lady Mason won’t let us bring food in.”

The boys move off, confident that the girls will follow.

One of them does, but Janie stays behind, apparently reluctant to leave me on the cold sidewalk. With a glance at her retreating friends, she pulls out her purse and removes two one-dollar bills. “You can get something on the dollar menu,” she says with a tentative smile. When I do not reach for the money, she sets it on the ground in front of me. “I hope you feel better.”

She hurries to join her friends, who have turned to see why she is not with them. As soon as they see her coming, they turn away, no longer interested in the derelict by the Stonewall Jackson statue. Kid Wanna-be opens a bag and starts handing out food as Janie rejoins them.

I hear the rustle of paper as they unwrap their sandwiches.

Handsome discards the bag, casually dropping it on the grass of the park lawn. I wonder if there might be a stray fry left inside.

I watch them go, dimly aware of what they think I am: a loser.

They are one hundred percent right.