“Good,” Christy said. “Then you’re not disappearing today.”
She watched the woman walk to the shelter’s door, watched a counselor open it and guide her inside. Then Christy Marks put Mabel back in gear and pulled away into the rain, the city opening up before her like a long, dark road full of passengers who just needed someone to see them, even for a few miles. christy marks taxi
Most people respected the sign. Those who didn’t learned quickly that Christy had a way of reaching back and turning off their Bluetooth speaker without looking. “Good,” Christy said
Christy glanced in the rearview mirror. “Sometimes. Why?” Most people respected the sign
Christy nodded slowly. She’d heard that before. From runaways. From women leaving bad situations. From people who’d decided to start over with nothing but a suitcase and a bus ticket.
And somewhere in the backseat, on the floor mat where the young woman had been sitting, a single silver earring glinted in the passing streetlights—a small, forgotten thing. Christy would find it the next morning, and she’d put it in the glove compartment with all the others: a tiny museum of people who had passed through her cab, each one a story she would carry, just in case they ever came back looking for what they’d left behind.
“You remember my name?”