She sits on the bottom step in front of her home as workmen carry furniture and boxes past her. Her elbows rest on her knees, the heels of her hands on her temples, her fingers laced across the back of her head. She seems merely to be staring at the ground. The perceptive might notice the occassional appearance of a small salty puddle below her downturned face.

Why is she crying? How else could you expect her to cope with the events of the past few days? The shock, the betrayal, the humiliation, and, cruelest of all, the loss. A thousand different versions of the past week run through her head, as if she hopes she could find some thread which would explain how quickly everything she thought her life had been came crashing down about her.

She is so deeply absorbed in this hypothetical world that she does not notice the shadow as it falls across her. Eventually her reverie is broken by the impatient tapping of a scuffed boot on the ground before her. Slowly she turns her red-rimmed eyes to stare back at the man who would rob the warmth of the sun from her.

"Could'ja get off the porch and get outta our way. Yer really slowin' us down, lady."