shut behind me. I swear I can still smell the smoke from my dream. The smoke that curled around my mother’s bare feet as they swung back and forth in her rocker, the smoke that felt hot on my little girl face, the smoke from the fire that lit up Rose in bright, yellow light. Right before she reached for my hand, right before she held it softly. Right before her gentle child’s grip became something else, something sinister and painful.
The scratches begin to hurt again as I hurriedly leave my house, hastening for anywhere, anywhere but here. I can’t go to Emme’s this early in the morning or she’d do worse than attempt a little arson on my clothes. She isn’t a morning person. I wonder where I could find Luke Dawes. In the bright, cheerful light of day, outside in the city, I am feeling much less nervous. I realize that now more than ever I want to do whatever I can to find my sister. If I could look at those photos Luke said he had taken of her…would they give me anything to go on? Any clue to her whereabouts or existence? I can think of no other route to Rose other than these photos, so I pull out his business card looking for the phone number or address of his shop. There is a number, but I will have to use a payphone to dial it. I must be the only teenager in all of America who doesn’t own a cell phone. I don’t see the point in learning how to use one if it will only be ripped away from me soon enough. Besides, who would I call?
There is a payphone, dirty and old, in the front of a service station on my right, and I jaywalk across the street quickly to get to it and feed it my coins. It rings and rings and no one picks up. Impatiently I wait for the voicemail and when it finally begins speaking to me I am informed that his photography shop is located at the corner of Poplar and Monterey Streets, beneath a yoga studio. It isn’t far, which explains his proximity to both my coffee shop and Prue’s food cart. Prue parks in that area most times as it’s close to a schoolyard and a business complex both, although the thought of her feeding small children alligator stew makes me roll my eyes. Not to mention with her people skills, she’d probably stew the children along with the gators. The business men and women in their expensive tailored suits and spiked heels will pay twice as much for her strange cooking as other customers, but their tips are terrible. They think she’s avant-garde and ahead of her time, and call her “a risk taker in the kitchen,” and “the city’s best kept secret!” Actually, she’s far behind their time but she definitely has the best kept secret.
It doesn’t take me long to reach Poplar and Monterey. Luke’s section of the complex is the only rundown little square of the shiny business complex. Even the yoga studio is sparkling and clean, and the tiny perfect office spaces that surround Dawes Photography are symmetrically square shaped with gleaming windows and perfectly hung signs. Luke’s space looks like the room that time forgot. The windows haven’t been washed in what looks like a very long time, the sign is crooked and it’s so dim inside it’s impossible to tell if he is even open for business. The windows, besides being filthy, are covered with fliers for musicals, concerts, dog sitting services, apartments for rent, and estate sale notices; on quick glance, they all seemed to have expired several months ago. The whole building complex reminds me of a beautiful smiling head with one brown, crooked tooth in its gaping mouth. I reach out my hand, turn the handle of the door and enter the brown decaying tooth, leaving the rest of the shiny head outside sparkling in the sun.
A set of bells right above my head jingles as I step inside and as I close the door behind me. Even the bells sound a bit tired and worn out. When no one greets me, I reach up and shake the bells more vigorously.
“Hello?” Luke’s head pokes out from behind a door in the back. His voice sounds extremely surprised at the realization that something resembling a customer has actually arrived. When he sees it’s me, he looks