Page 5 of Home Game

“Are you sure this is where you want to be?” I said, slowing the vehicle to a crawl.

“Pull over here,” she said, flinging open the door before I could even come to a full stop. She slammed the door. I pulled against the curb and then watched as she ran across the street, weaving between oncoming traffic, narrowly missing getting clipped by a truck before racing up the steps of a church. She stood on the steps. It looked like she rang a bell. After several moments, a man came to the door and talked to her. Something agitated her in her conversation. He leaned forward and patted her on the shoulder. And then he went back inside and shut the door.

She stood there, a lone, tiny figure and just faced those closed doors. With a dejected stance, she came down the steps. She pulled a hood up over her head, and arms crossed, she slowly walked down the street away from me.

“What are you up to?” I asked out loud. Then I caught sight of the sign.

United Church Shelter for the Homeless. Doors close at 8 PM.

I sat there with incredulity. Punk rocker was trying to get to a homeless shelter? I had made her late. And now it was full or closed.

Without thought, I got out of my vehicle and crossed the street, running after her. It took nothing to catch up with her.

I tapped her on the shoulder, and it was like a wildcat going ballistic on me.

“Get off me,” she screamed. Then she recognized me and stopped.

Dark streaks of make-up ran down her face. Shit. Punk rocker was crying.

“Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?” I asked.

“Because it’s none of your fucking business.”

We stood there looking at each other. Fuck this was fucked up.

“Are they full?” I asked, unsure what else to ask.

“They close the doors at 8 PM and they make no exceptions.”

“That’s stupid,” I said. I couldn’t even wrap my brain around this situation. Who stayed at a homeless shelter? Didn’t a friend have a couch she could crash on? Where was her family? This was so far out of my scope, I didn’t even know how to troubleshoot this.

She shrugged and squared her shoulders. “Whatever.”

She turned and walked away. A tiny, hunched over little figure. How the hell did I get myself into this mess?

“Let me help,” I said to her back.

She turned and looked at me. “I don’t need your help.”

I wanted to believe her lie. I wanted to get off this stinking street and get back to my life. But I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t right. “What are you going to do?”

“Find a 24-hour diner. Finish my book.”

“Isn’t there another place you can go to?” I couldn’t even bring myself to say the word shelter.

“The other ones aren’t safe. I wouldn’t sleep.”

What the fuck.

Deep breath. Wasn’t my life complicated enough? Did I really need to do this? Could I walk away in good conscience? My mom, watching me with a stern look on her face, came to mind. Some people worried about God judging their actions. My mom was my entire moral compass. She always did what was right whether it was right for her. And she would definitely not let punk rocker walk away.

I tried once more. “This is my fault. Let me help.”

She rolled her eyes, but she looked so sad it almost gutted me. “What? Are you going to invite me over to sleep on your couch?”

I hesitated. For a fraction of a second. Anyone in my situation would. But she didn’t even give me that fraction of a second beforeshe was shaking her head at me. “Whatever. That’s what I thought.”

She got three steps away from me before I spoke without thinking. “I have over 300 channels on my 72-inch screen and I can order a pizza. My couch is yours for the night if you want it.”

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