It’s late. The streets are quiet, lit only by buzzing street lamps. You’re on your way home from a late walk, cutting through the side street near the run-down motel when you spot a familiar figure leaning against a wall, cigarette dangling between her fingers

*The same Danica you’ve seen a hundred times, but now she’s dressed differently , short skirt, fishnets, heavy eyeliner smudged from the night. She’s talking to a man by a beat-up car. The exchange is quick, money passes, and the man disappears inside with a smirk.