Sitting on a sidewalk was how Sadie spent most of her days. The cracked concrete beneath her had become a second home, its uneven grooves mapping the contours of her existence. She liked how invisible it made her feel—a human ghost blending into the urban decay.

  People passed behind her, unconcerned about her well-being, their hurried footsteps echoing the rhythm of a city that had long since stopped seeing her.

  Some walked faster, heels clacking busily, fearing she might ask for change. It was perfect. Invisibility had its perks—no one questioned why a woman in her late twenties, with DIY magenta streaks in her hair, chose to perch like a crow on the edge of civilization.

  It felt especially right on cold autumn days, when the sky hung low like a damp gray blanket. The pavement leached warmth from her bones—the perfect temperature to chill her rear, a sensation she’d grown to crave. The nippy wind carried the tang of distant rain and the musk of overripe dumpsters, giving her goosebumps as she poured the ground hemp mixture into her drink.

  The concoction swirled like a storm in her mason jar, flecks of green catching the pale light. She’d perfected the ratio over months: just enough to numb the ache in her lower back, a souvenir from a hit-and-run driver who’d left her crumpled on 5th Avenue two winters ago.

  A few sips in, and the chronic pain began to subside. The knots in her muscles unraveled one by one. The dejected filter she’d come to see her life through cleared up as the THC kicked in, sending tingles through her body and transforming the grime-streaked alley into a kaleidoscope. A pigeon pecking at a discarded burger wrapper became a ballet dancer spinning across an antique music box disk.

  "All I see is beauty," she mused, watching a man zip up after peeing on a graffitied brick wall. His stream had arced with surprising elegance, glinting amber in the sunlight. She wondered if he’d practiced.

  "Okay, that’s enough socializing for the day." Her voice was raspy from the cold. She placed her hands on her knees, pushed herself up—pops and cracks—and walked past the wall where the man had marked his territory. Her favorite graffiti was among the splattered art, which soured her mood. It wasn’t just the urine; it was the carelessness, the way people treated beauty as a urinal.

  It was a painting of a bear lovingly hugging a sloth until its starry eyes popped out of their sockets. The sloth’s expression—a mix of bliss and terror—always made Sadie’s chest tighten. The art reminded her of Cynthia, and consequently, her mission.

  "I have a few more minutes to waste," Sadie remarked, glancing at her toy watch—a garplastic thing she’d fished out of a bargain bin. Its hands were frozen at 4:20, a joke only she appreciated. Her eyes drifted back to the graffiti. The tag beneath it read RubyCunt.

  It was the signature of an anonymous underground artist whose work was rumored to predict future events. Last year, a mural of a drowning clocktower had appeared weeks before the historic Sinclair Flood. Sadie wasn’t sure what this one meant. So many men had used the sloth’s face as their pissoir that some of the colors had started to fade, the neon greens and pinks bleeding into the brick like a wound.

  “Dirty dogs. It should be considered vandalism to deface such a piece,” she thought. That gave her an idea. She decided to immortalize the painting when she returned home, using her secret talent—the one Nun Zahye had praised before the convent expelled her for “unholy hands.” But first, she had to call the firemen. There was no emergency—unless you counted the existential kind.

  She looked around for something that might qualify—a smoking trash can, a cat in a tree, anything—when a van pulled up, its engine growling like a feral dog. It was unmarked, its white paint peeling to reveal rust beneath. Three masked assailants jumped out, boots slamming against the pavement in unison, and ran into a nearby bank. The doors swung shut behind them, swallowing the trio whole.

  “That seems like an emergency… but firemen wouldn’t be useful here,” she pondered, tapping her chin. Unless…

  The repetition of “firemen” sparked a thought. “Firemen… fireman… fire. Just light a fire, silly!” she exclaimed, slapping her forehead.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  She fished a lighter from her pocket—a cheap plastic one from the gas station—and held it to the van’s filler cap. The flame danced uselessly against the steel. So she turned to the wheels, hacking at the rubber with a pocketknife until frayed threads poked through.

  After a few minutes, she managed to ignite one of the tires. The driver, a hulking man with a neck tattoo of a serpent, smelled burning rubber and stepped out, face purpling.

  “The truck’s on fire! Abort!” he yelled into a walkie-talkie, voice cracking.

  “Don’t worry, I’m on it,” Sadie replied cheerily, then sauntered toward a red phone booth that hadn’t worked since the ’90s. Her smoothie in her left hand, she used her shoulder to press the receiver to her ear while dialing with her free hand. The buttons stuck, their numbers worn to ghosts.

  +1 717-999-2000.

  A childlike voice answered. “Ruffus?” Sadie asked. He didn’t sound rough at all—more like a preteen who’d just discovered sarcasm. Was it bring-your-kid-to-work day? Or did the fire chief just have a particularly youthful voice?

  “No. Wrong number,” the kid replied before hanging up, the dial tone buzzing in her ear like an angry bee.

  She had to remember the right number before the neighborhood went up in flames. She recalled the seven in the fourth position was wrong, so she tried all nine digits until, on the last try, a deep voice responded. It rumbled like distant thunder.

  “Sinclair Fire Department. What’s the nature of your emergency?”

  “Ruffus? I burned a van.”

  “Were you involved in a car accident, ma’am? Are you hurt?”

  “Yes, it was accidental. Location’s just opposite Sanders Bank. Hurry, please.”

  That would do. She hung up before hearing the reply, then called Caroline to let her know the plan was in motion. Sadie mildly complained about being put in a hot situation, her words slurring just enough to sound inconvenienced—not high.

  Caroline was confused. “What’s so complicated about making one call at a specific time?” she asked, her voice tinny through the payphone speaker.

  So Sadie explained how she couldn’t find an emergency and had to start a fire, her tone oscillating between pride and defensiveness.

  “What?!” Caroline exploded. Sadie held the receiver away from her ear, grinning as the tirade distorted into static.

  "You did what?!" Caroline roared. Sadie hung up, enraged—her efforts were never appreciated.

  She decided to head home, still unaware of the figure that had been following her for the past four blocks. On her way back, a scrimmage caught her attention—security guards were jostling on the ground with the robbers, who had lost their means of escape thanks to the fire. Every good deed has its victim.

  As she was crossing the bridge, a police car zipped past, sirens blazing, sending a rippling wave her way. She got fully showered by the splash. Raising her arms, she cussed at the racing vehicle—then lowered them quickly, remembering the cannabis in her system. She’d rather keep her arms down than up and surrounded by cops.

  She always tried to be on her best behavior when police were around. She didn’t want the headache. She was a strong girl, but even she didn’t think she could handle being locked in a cell, no matter how similar it was to her current decrepit home. At least she had freedom.

  "I shouldn’t have shaken my drink at them," she muttered, flipping her keys. Then another thought intruded: What are they going to do, taste it? Then I can do a citizen’s arrest on them for being under the influence while on duty.

  She unlocked the door and went inside, not bothering to shut it. Who needs to close their doors when Miss Josephine is guarding them 24/7?

  A giant rat lurching on the table welcomed Sadie’s arrival. It was Big Mac, her pet and roommate. He’d wandered into her house one day and she never found a reason to get rid of him. Now he shared her cheese. She glanced around her living room—not much furniture.

  Just a semi-functional TV she got at a discount from a pawnshop and a couch she’d hauled in when her upstairs neighbors got rid of it. A plush toy sat in the corner, a needle still stuck in its eye. Upon closer inspection, Sadie noticed it was missing an ear.

  "Big Mac!" she yelled. "If you keep chewing up my stuff, you’re going to end up as my next meal."

  She wasn’t mad because it had sentimental value. She was pissed because that plushie was how she was going to feed herself for a week. Sadie had a knack for sewing odd plush toys—Nun Zahye had taught her the techniques—and she used the craft to express herself.

  Some kids saw the plushies and thought they were cool, so she became a plush dealer. Her masterpiece would be the bear and the sloth. Some would say she stole the idea, but the evidence of her inspiration was slowly fading away on 18th Street.

  Meanwhile, Miss Josephine watched through her spyhole as a strange man entered the building. She saw him push open the unlocked door across from hers and slip inside.

  Sadie was holding her plush, examining the damage to its ear. "I can fix this," she encouraged herself. As she started to pull the needle from the bear’s eye, a stranger burst in. She panicked and shoved the television at him.

  Unfazed, he rushed her, pinning her to the wall. She struggled, too weak to fight him off. Big Mac leapt at the assailant, biting his ankle. The distraction gave Sadie a chance to reach for the knife in her boot.

  Miss Josephine was listening intently. The banging on the walls. The long moans. An abrupt groan. She picked up the phone and called the landlord, informing him that Sadie was working as a prostitute.