I say, but she's already ushering me out the back of her restaurant. Remorse is written in the lines of her aging face as she gives me a final push into the alley.

"Don't come back here, Lucy. We can't offer you any more work. If we get caught employing someone like you, it could be trouble for my business. I'm sorry, I really am."

She shuts the door, leaving me out here with the snow and dumpsters. The streetlight above me illuminates the alley, drowning out any sign of the stars.

Blowing out a cloud, I hug my arms over the jacket Angel Boy gave me. I knew coming here was a stupid idea, but I wanted to make one last-ditch effort to get Mrs. Romano to rehire me. A few months ago, she paid me under the table to clean dishes and mop floors, but ended up getting audited. I hid in the closet while the inspector was there, and after that, she got paranoid. I can't blame her. I have no ID, no social security number. On paper, I'm a ghost, so of course no one can hire me.

But sometimes I wish someone would give me a chance anyway.

I've been hungry for so long that the pain has started to feel more like nausea. I managed to get a granola bar and some chips over the past day, but I need a real meal. The foodbank is too far to walk from here, and they barely give me anything that doesn't involve a can opener and a microwave anyway. I lean against the brick wall of the back alley, the smell of garbage rotting beside me, and allow the despair to weigh me down. But only for a moment.

There's still one more way for me to make money. One thing I've been avoiding trying, but I'm out of options here, I really am. With a sigh, I pick myself up and keep moving.

Snow crunches beneath my boots as I merge with the chaos of downtown. I stuff my bangs into my hood and keep my head low so no one will recognize me. With Slater back in town, I need to be extra careful about where I show my face. West of downtown is generally off-limits, but that's where Jim's pawn shop is, so I have to risk it.

Cold as it is, there's this air quality in the winter, like the snow and ice are filtering all Godfrey's pollution. On the horizon, the sky is a gradient of pale yellow to dark blue. As I turn onto Oakland Street, the soft melody of an acoustic guitar drifts through the air. On the corner, beneath a flickering McDonald's sign, an old man strums away and belts out the lyrics to Take Me Home, Country Roads. Despite his obvious talent, there are barely any coins in his case. I have nothing to give him either.

When I was a little girl, in a life so distant sometimes I wonder if it was ever real, my mother and I were walking around in the south end when we heard music. A man sat at the corner of Fifth and Main with an acoustic guitar, just like the man I'm seeing now, but he'd collected way more coins. Fascinated, I had asked my mother, "Can I make money like that someday?"

She yanked on my arm, pulling me away from the man, and said, "Lucy, keep your eyes down and don't look at him."

I was only five, so I didn't get why she looked down on him like that. I do now, though, and I know she would look down on me the same way if she knew what I was about to do. Too bad for her, because I stopped caring about what she had to say a long time ago. She lost that right when she abandoned me with a monster.

Pushing through the doors to Jim's Pawn shop, the dusty smell of old junk fills my nostrils. Box TVs and random items line the shelves, and I walk straight to the back counter, where Jim lifts his eyes from the jewel he's observing.

"Oh, hey, kid. You again. What can I do for you?"

I hesitate on the chain in my pocket before I drop my mother's necklace on the counter. I'm surprised I made it this long without pawning it, and truthfully, I still don't want to, but... I have to do this. Behind Jim's head, on the wall next to a row of old tools, is a scratched-up violin. That's what I'm really here for. Knowing Jim, I'll have to heckle him for a decent price.

Jim dangles the necklace in front of his eyes then goes in with a magnifying glass.

"It's real, I swear," I say.

"Sure looks that way. Okay, I'll give you two-hundo."

"What? It's worth way more than that."

He wheezes out a laugh. "Not here it ain't."

I narrow my eyes. Screw you, old man. Jim knows damn well he's the only one who will sell to me when I'm under eighteen. "You're a real asshole, you know that?" I say.

Jim's brows raise, and I huff.

"Sorry. Fine, it's a deal. Hand it over."

After losing my heart-shaped box, there's nothing holding me to my old life anyway. Keeping my mother's necklace is sentimental and stupid when I'm out here starving. Whoever I used to be is gone. Who I am now is all that matters.

"How much for the violin?" I ask as Jim sorts the bills.

"What, that old thing?" He places the last bill on the stack and slides it to me. "Two-hundred."

"Seriously? With those scratches, I'd call it fifty bucks max."

Jim blinks at me. Okay, I should probably tone down the snark if I want something from him. "Would you consider selling it for less?" I ask sweetly. As always, he sees right through it, so I add, "Please? It's just like the one I had as a kid."

"You're telling me you can play that thing?"

"Yeah, what of it?"

He laughs in disbelief. "Okay, kid. For you, one-fifty."

"What? Come on, Jim..."

"One-fifty or nothing."

I bite my lip. A hundred and fifty bucks could keep me well-fed for a while. But fifty will feed me today, and busking with that violin could keep me "employed" for months. Call it a long-term investment.

"Fine," I say, "but it better include a case."

By the time I find a good area to set up, snowflakes trickle from the night sky, raining over the city streets. East of downtown is where I normally see buskers, and I've heard some of them can make anywhere from twenty to eighty in one night. I doubt I'll have that kind of luck; I haven't touched a violin since I was thirteen, so there's a chance this thing is going to wail like a banshee. But it's my only shot at making money.

I'm stuffing my face with a hot dog I bought from a vendor as I catch my reflection in the windows of buildings. When I pass by a store with a TV displayed, I stop, because the white light of a hockey game illuminates the screen. Other sports-related junk is set up behind the window, and the fluorescent sign of the store reads Play it Twice Sports.

Normally I wouldn't give it a second thought, but the game reminds me I'm wearing a hockey player's name on my shoulders. I go to leave, but then a logo pops up on the screen: Godfrey Ice Sharks Weekly Recap, followed by PLAYER OF THE MONTH. A clip loads of a guy in a navy jersey shooting a goal. On his back, the number 47 and the name Wexler.

Well, would you look at that.

I take another bite of my ketchup and onion covered hot dog. A guy in his forties appears on the screen, an ice rink behind him. The subtitles on the screen read, "We've drafted players from all over the world, but Wexler was born here in Godfrey, so people here are really rooting for him. He's easily the best centerman I've coached."

Wow, looks like Junior is a bit of a local celebrity. Maybe I would have known that if I ever cared about trivial things like sports.

Elliot himself shows up next and it gives me whiplash. He doesn't look real, not like he did when I was with him. Sweat sticks pieces of his dark hair to his forehead, and he holds his helmet as a blonde woman shoves a mic in his face. With blotchy cheeks, Elliot averts his eyes and shifts on his heels.

"What's your favourite part of the game, Elliot?"

"Uh, I love skating, and I love chasing the puck. And getting to know my teammates. That's really cool."

"And do you think the Ice Sharks have a shot at becoming the top team this season?"

"Uh—I like to think so, I mean, yeah, definitely. We have a shot."

"People are saying you're destined for the NHL. What do you think about that?"

"Well, thank you, firstly, and I guess I just gotta do my best and hope I don't let people down."

"No pressure, right?"

He laughs. "No pressure at all."

A smirk touches my lips. Even on camera, he's an ineloquent dork.

Taking a last bite of my hot dog, I toss the garbage in a trashcan and keep moving. As interesting as Elliot and his picture-perfect life is, I have money to make. I'll never see him again, at least not in person, so whatever he's doing doesn't concern me.

After heading to an unoccupied street corner, I set up my instrument. The case is surprisingly nice, with crocodile skin plastic and a red velvet interior. The violin isn't bad either, a little banged up but the strings are sturdy and tuned. I leave the case open at my feet and hide my face with my bangs. Making a spectacle of myself is risky, but there's little chance Slater would be anywhere near this area. Still, my chest tightens.

I start to play anyway.

At first, it's like nails on a chalkboard; the bow screeches against the strings, and I recoil as pedestrians shoot me dirty looks. But screw them. They don't know me, or what I've been through, or what I'm capable of. Shutting my eyes, I reach into my mind, into the part of me I try so hard to forget. My childhood. My music room. The place where so many bad things happened. But it was also the place where I learned to love music.

In my mind, I see the striped wallpaper, smell the pine-scented candle that was perpetually lit. I open my eyes, and it's then I realize I've started playing. The chords come out naturally, so I try a Christmas song next: Up on the Hilltop, one of the first songs I ever learned to play successfully.

Before I know it, I've found my rhythm. People start flipping coins into my case, and an old confidence slowly returns to my fingertips.

In a couple of hours, I've made fifteen bucks worth of coins. It's not much, but hey, it's a start.