be wrenched away, s.n.a.t.c.hed by a riptide I have no power to resist?

If I find my way to you, one man standing in a crowd, will I even know who you are?

Eden

Off the Streets

Safely sheltered by the kind people here at Walk Straight, thanks to Father Gregory.

What is it with me and good Samaritans?

I never believed so many really existed, never guessed that any of them would ever reach out and yank me away from h.e.l.l.

That's where I was. h.e.l.l isn't some fiery pit "down there." It's right here on Earth, in every dirty city, every yawning town.

Every glittery resort and every naked stretch of desert where someone's life somersaults out of control. Satan-Evil-doesn't have horns or poke you with a pitchfork. His power doesn't come from full moon sacrifices, and he doesn't go out looking for new recruits. He doesn't have to. All he has to do is wait.

Walk Straight Is an amazing place, a rescue for teen prost.i.tutes who want to turn their lives around. All they have to do is ask. I didn't know to ask, but Father Gregory did.

It's run by an exceptional woman, he told me, an ex-prost.i.tute herself.

When she got out, she wanted to help other young people get off the streets.

You'll have a place to live, an education.

They'll help you decide how to shape your future. If you have a pimp, they'll encourage you to testify against him, and they'll go to court with you so you don't have to be afraid to put him away.

When I got here, they cleaned me up, fed me, had a doctor run some tests.

I'm not pregnant, didn't catch some horrible disease. I was a little anemic, but that will change with good nutrition.

I didn't eat nearly so well at Tears of Zion.

My Caseworker Is named Sarah. She's really nice, but she does ask a lot of questions, some of which I'm not prepared to answer.

Sarah: Where is your home, Ruthie?

Okay, so I haven't been completely honest with them. I'm afraid if I give them my real name, they'll find some kind of all points bulletin out for me.

So I used my middle name-Ruth. Sarah added the "ie" to make it "feel friendlier."

I didn't exactly lie when I answered, "Las Vegas has been my home for a while."

Sarah: Okay, then. Can you tell me how you ended up in "the business"?

More mostly truth. "I never wanted to.

I just didn't know any other way to survive."

Sarah: I understand. And what about your parents? Will you tell me about them?

"They're dead." That was not a lie.

My parents are dead. To me.

Boise, Idaho Is a bittersweet memory, and Tears of Zion is a wake-up-shivering nightmare. My parents are zombies, death-walking through both.

I would die before I'd go back, and I'll have to tell Sarah all of that very soon. Because I did find a way to get hold of Andrew. His mom is still a professor at Boise State. And, duh, professors have e-mail addresses. We have computer access here at Walk Straight. I e-mailed her two days ago. She got back to me yesterday.

Eden! Thank G.o.d you're okay. We've been so worried! Andrew has searched and searched for you. He pestered your parents so much, I thought they'd have him arrested again... . She gives a long story about the first time they had him arrested, and how they and some of Papa's congregation hara.s.sed Andrew until he had to have his phone number changed. He'll be so relieved. How can he reach you?

I Insisted on E-mail A phone call would mean somebody knows and cares I'm here. I'm not ready to confess that yet, not ready to think about talking to Pastor Streit and his not-nearly-as-sweet-as-she-seems right-hand woman. She will never be Mama again. I don't know how much I will ever be able to tell Andrew about the past few months. I'm changed, and he'll know that. But does he have to know why?

If he finds out I'm here, I guess he'll figure out why. I go to the resource room, open my Gmail. Oh my G.o.d. It's here.

Eden, he writes. I can't believe it's you.

Every prayer answered. When can I see you? When are you coming home?

To the point. All Andrew, in cybers.p.a.ce.

I type a to-the-point reply: "Not sure when I'll come home. Lots to talk about.

Just know, now and always, I love you."

A Poem by Seth Parnell Home Simple word. Four letters, two consonants, two vowels, one of them silent.

Home.

You wish you could walk through a familiar door, shout out the word, in a simple two-word sentence: "I'm home!"

But that door has been closed to you, slammed shut in your face, and no amount of pleading will open it again. Two consonants, two vowels.

One word without meaning when you don't have a home.

Seth

Always Believed

There would be a way back home eventually. Figured sooner or later, Dad would come around, accept me for how I was born. Part Mom, part him. But no. I did finally talk to him on the phone. For all of three minutes. You come to your senses? Asked the Lord for forgiveness?

"That's between him and me, Dad. And anyway, I never had much sense to begin with. I'm still who I am, though, no more, no less. Want you to know I love you."

He didn't budge. Didn't say okay, son, come on home. Didn't say I'm good with you, just how you are.

Didn't tell me he loves me.

I Also Messaged Loren Found him on Facebook.

Seems everyone has one of those now. "Moved to Las Vegas with a friend," I wrote. "Things didn't work out, so I'm looking for another place." I hoped, of course, that he'd write back, confess how much he misses me, ask me if maybe I'd like to give upstate New York a try.

I didn't hear back for quite some time. So long, in fact, that I was beginning to think he was going to ignore me completely.

Finally, though, I got a reply.

Seth. Great to hear from you.

Glad to know you wound up somewhere cosmopolitan.

I've got some news of my own. Hope you'll be happy for me when I tell you I hooked up with someone really special. You'd like him, I think. In fact, he reminds me a whole lot of you... .

Don't Know Where I'll wind up in the future.

I have no way to leave Vegas.

Not for a while. So for now, I'll stay here, living with David.

Met him through a friend of a chat buddy, and so far, so good.

He ch.o.r.eographs major shows, and with over thirty years in the business, is something of a Sin City icon. His house has ten bedrooms. You could call the decor garish, with marble statues and white furniture.

Paparazzi hang around outside his parties, which are regular.

I have no more with David than I had with Carl, except for amenities. My life is still not my own. But it may never be. One thing I did take away from Carl is to try and earn a little money of my own, save up a small nest egg. Have Ur Cake Escorts is my way of doing that. When David isn't looking.

A Poem by Whitney Lang When You Weren't Looking The child became a woman, though she wasn't ready to. Don't ask how or why.

Those questions are not the important ones.

Can't you see you didn't care enough to notice?

How will you feel if we have no more time together? I wonder if you're sorry now about the way you locked your heart, access denied to the beggar at your door.

She's n.o.body, only me.

Whitney

Almost Died

That's what they told me. Ninety percent of me wishes they would have let me go. Easier than battling the vicious onslaught of withdrawal.

Easier than coming to terms with who I was when I almost died. I don't even know that girl. She's an esoteric someone, like a movie character you can't quite recognize. Even with my head just about straight, she seems like a caricature-a cartoon rendition of one of the living dead.

Throughout a week of intensive care, I drifted in and out of the almost corpse, not quite warmed by hospital flannel.

Then there were several more days, mostly conscious as they pumped sustenance into my veins. Sustenance and heroin subst.i.tutes. Easing me off the Lady.

Pretending they didn't want me to hurt.

I Can't Tell You Exactly how many days I hovered somewhere between this world and another, or which was the scariest.

But the first face I saw, when I decided I might as well open my eyes, didn't belong to a doctor or a cop. Or Bryn.

I can't remember ever seeing it so full of compa.s.sion. Who was this woman?

Oh, Whitney, she said. I expected a How could you? but instead I heard, Thank G.o.d you've come back to me.

To her? Did I come back to her?

Did I come back at all, and if I did, would I stay? The jury was still out.

Still is today, a month later. No matter.

That day, her concern surprised me.

Pleased me. Overwhelmed me, though I'd never admit it in a trillion years.

I pretended indifference. "Nice to see you, Mother, I guess. Why are you here?"

My snotty tone should have drawn a barb. But no. She came over to the bed, took my hand. I'm so sorry.

If I would have lost you forever, I don't know what I would have done.

Please, Whitney, whatever your reasons for leaving, for ... for ... She actually started to cry. We can work through this.