That I know of.

The realization blasts into my thoughts like a radio at full volume. Just because Ingrid didn’t mention abuse doesn’t mean there wasn’t any. I again think of the many places she’s lived, the endless moving, the gun she bought—possibly when she assumed running was no longer an option.

“Then she’d have come here,” the woman says.

I press my phone against the glass so she can see the photo I showed the smokers outside. After a moment’s contemplation, she says, “She doesn’t look familiar, sweetie. But I’m only here during the day. This place fills up at night, so there’s a chance she’s here then and I just missed her.”

“Is it possible to talk to someone who is here at night? Maybe they’d recognize her.”

She gestures to a pair of double doors opposite the desk. “There’s a few of them still in there. You’re welcome to take a look.”

I push through the doors into a gymnasium that’s been turned into a space for two hundred people. An army of temporary tenants. Identical cots have been spread across the gym floor in untidy rows of twenty each.

I walk among the cots, seeking out the few that are occupied just in case one of them is Ingrid. At the end of the row, a woman sits straight-backed on the edge of her cot. She stares at a nearby set of roll-away bleachers that have been pressed against the wall. Taped to it is an inspirational poster. A field of lavender swaying in the breeze. At the bottom is a quote from Eleanor Roosevelt.

With the new day comes new strength and new thoughts.

“Every day, before I leave for work, I sit and stare at this poster, hoping that Eleanor is right,” the woman says. “But so far, each new day only brings the same old shit.”

“It could be worse,” I blurt out before I can think better of it. “We could be dead.”

“Gotta say, I wouldn’t mind seeing that on an inspirational poster.” The woman slaps her thigh and lets out a raucous laugh that fills our side of the gymnasium. “I haven’t seen you before. You new?”

“Just visiting,” I say.

“Lucky you.”

I take that to mean she’s been here awhile. A surprise, seeing how she doesn’t look homeless. Her clothes are clean and well-pressed. Khaki pants, white shirt, blue cardigan. All of them in better condition than what I’m wearing. My sweater has a hole at the cuff that I cover with my left hand as I hold out the phone with my right.

“I’m looking for someone who might be staying here. This is a recent picture of her.”

The woman eyes the photo of Ingrid and me with curiosity. “Her face doesn’t ring any bells. And I’ve been here a month. Waiting for assisted housing to free up. ‘Any day now,’ they tell me. Like it’s a UPS package and not a damn place to live.”

“She would have been here in the past day,” I say. “If she was here at all.”

“Name?”

“Her name is Ingrid.”

“I meant your name,” the woman says.

“Sorry. I’m Jules.”

She finally looks up from the photo and, with a gap-toothed smile, says, “Pretty name. I’m Bobbie. Not as pretty, I know. But it’s one of the few things that’s mine.”

She pats the space next to her, and I join her on the cot. “It’s nice to meet you, Bobbie.”

“Likewise, Jules.”

She plucks the phone from my hand to study the photo once more. “She a friend of yours?”

“More like an acquaintance.”

“Is she in trouble?”

I sigh. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. If she is, I want to help her.”

Bobbie sizes me up. Polite suspicion. I can’t blame her. She’s probably encountered a lot of people with offers of help. Ones with strings attached. As for me, I suspect she sees a kindred spirit, because she says, “I’ll keep an eye out for her, if you want.”

“I’d appreciate that very much.”

“Can you send me the picture?”

“Sure.”

Bobbie gives me her phone number, and I text her the photo.

“I’ll save your number,” she says. “So I can call you if I run into her.”

I want her to do more than just call me. I want her to tell me about her life. About the chain of events that led her here. Because we have something in common, Bobbie and me. We’re just two women trying to get by as best we can.

“You say you’ve been here a month?” I say.

“That’s right.”

“And before that?”

Bobbie gives me another suspicious once-over. “Are you a social worker or something?”

“Just interested in your story,” I say. “If you’re interested in telling it.”

“There’s not much to tell, Jules. Shit happens. You know how it is.”

I nod. I know exactly how it is.

“My family was poor, you see. Welfare. Food stamps. All that stuff some folks are always trying to get rid of.” Bobbie huffs with annoyance. “As if we like depending on food stamps. As if we want that goddamn brick of orange cheese they give out. I told myself that when I grew up, I wasn’t going to let that happen to me. And I managed for a while. But then something unexpected happened, and I had to dig myself a little hole of debt to deal with it. Then to fill in that hole, I had to dig another, this one a little bigger. After a while, there were so many holes that I was bound to fall into one and not be able to get out. It’s hard. Life is hard. And too damn expensive.”