Prologue
Eleven years ago
“It’s nice out here.”
I shifted my eyes to the girl, who seemed entranced by the river flowing past Belle Isle, and nodded.
Poppy. That was her street name. Nobody on the street went by their real name. Unless they were young and dumb. That’s what happened to me. My name is Poet. Poet Parker. People assume that’s a street name. Besides, it wasn’t as if anybody was looking for me ... or cared.
“It is nice,” I agreed, shifting on the bench to get more comfortable. Poppy was a new addition to our little group. She’d arrived by bus from a one-traffic light town in Northern Lower Michigan three days earlier. She was fresh meat in a dangerous city — no matter how hard the planning commission toiled and sweated over the affairs in Detroit, it would never be completely safe — and I wanted to show her something good before the ugliness of her new reality set in. Belle Isle seemed just the place.
“Yeah, it’s great,” I echoed, forcing a smile I didn’t really feel. When I first hit the street after yet another disastrous stay with a foster family, I’d often visited Belle Isle. It felt like a haven in the midst of despair ... yet I rarely came now. That’s not because the despair had somehow eased as much as I’d grown accustomed to it. Seriously, though, how does someone become used to despair? I was starting to question my reality, and I didn’t take that as a good sign.
“Why don’t we move out here?” Poppy’s eyes were a bright green, like the fields I saw in movies. I enjoyed escaping into a theater whenever possible, and the young woman’s face reminded me of one from a romantic comedy, or maybe a period piece with corsets and hoop skirts. She definitely didn’t look as if she belonged on the street. She had zero rough edges, fodder for the people who would chew her up out here.
“The cops roust us out,” I replied simply. “They’re trying to keep the island free of ... certain elements.”
“And we’re those elements?”
I nodded. “They don’t want us around one of their few legitimate attractions. Belle Isle brings people in from all over the state. Heck, people from other states visit all the time. Tourists are uncomfortable with the homeless … and the other stuff.”
Poppy’s frown grew more pronounced. “We’re not homeless.”
“No?” I arched a challenging eyebrow. “How do you figure that?”
“Because ... we’re all together.” She still had that earnest quality I so often saw in the newbies. Those who voluntarily relinquished that quality survived. Those who didn’t, those who had it taken, were doomed to slow death. Poppy was an example of the latter. She wasn’t geared for this life. That’s one of the reasons I decided to bring her to Belle Isle. I still had a chance to save her, send her back home.
“That doesn’t mean we’re not homeless.” I debated which tact to take with her. She was sensitive and vulnerable. You can’t be vulnerable on the street. “Tell me about your home,” I prodded. I wanted to know what she was fleeing. That would tell me what she was running toward.
Poppy quickly averted her gaze. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
I studied her profile. It was nondescript, like so many of the others. Her cheekbones hid beneath the soft roundness that only youth could provide. Her jawline was almost nonexistent. Her shoulders slouched. She was unremarkable — and in a whole lot of trouble. “I think you have to.” I decided not to mince words. “You’re not geared for this life.”
Poppy’s eyes filled with fire. “I made it all the way down here on my own. You think I’m not tough, but that proves how tough I really am.”
I had news for her. That was nothing. Almost literally, nothing. “You hopped on a bus and rode five hours to the city,” I countered. “That’s nothing compared to what the others have done to survive on the street.”
“And you don’t think I can do those things.”
I shook my head. “I don’t. That’s why I want to know your reason for running.” I licked my lips, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was about to take. It was necessary, though. “Were you abused?”
Alarm lined Poppy’s nondescript features. “Why would you ask that?”
“A lot of people who end up out here run from abuse. This life isn’t great, but it’s certainly better than living with a person who hurts you.”
“I wasn’t abused,” Poppy groused, her expression darkening. “Not the way you’re thinking. I left for other reasons.”
“What reasons?”
“None of your business.”
I was expecting the answer. Perhaps not the vehemence associated with it, but the answer all the same. “I’m trying to help you.” I kept my voice level. “You might not see that — and I understand, because when I first landed here I had attitude too — but I’m honestly trying to make sure you understand the ramifications of this life.”
“What ramifications?” Poppy’s eyes went so wide I thought they might pop. “We live on the street, sleep under the stars, do whatever we want to do ... whenever we want. Sounds like the perfect life.”
“You’ve romanticized things in your head,” I countered, annoyance bubbling up. “That’s not reality.”
“You’re just trying to frighten me.”
“I am.” There was no sense denying it. “I need you to understand that this isn’t a fairy tale. You’ve heard us talk about Grimer, right?”
Poppy faltered and then nodded. “You said he liked to sleep behind garbage cans because people never bothered him there. No offense, but I’m never going to be hardcore enough to do that. I mean ... garbage is gross.”
And that right there would be one of her greatest hurdles. “Go three weeks without a shower and you’ll smell like garbage.”
Poppy frowned. “Why would I go three weeks without a shower?”
I decided to turn the tables on her. “Where do you think you’re going to have access to regular showers?”
“The YMCA. Gyms. Other places.”
“The YMCA has only so many openings and it doesn’t allow just anybody in,” I countered. “You have to pay for a room to take a shower. Any money you brought with you will disappear faster than you think. That money, by the way, makes you a target. There’s a reason the veterans crowd the newbies the second you get off the bus.”
Poppy swallowed hard but remained silent.
“The gyms are the same. You need a membership to get access to the showers.”
“Then where do you shower?” Poppy challenged. “You don’t smell.”
“I managed a shower four days ago and I’ve learned the tricks to remain daisy fresh for up to a week. Trust me, I’ll stink again in a few days. As for where I showered, I didn’t. I snuck into the fountain at Hart Plaza in the middle of the night and cleaned up there.”
Poppy’s mouth dropped open. “A fountain?” She looked outraged. Finally, we were getting somewhere.
I nodded slowly. “A fountain,” I confirmed. “This life isn’t how you imagined it. You will never get what you want out of it. You’re not geared to live like this.”