And my damn birth certificate.
“You gonna call them, then?” I ask.
“Call who?”
“The cops.”
A paused hush fills the air between us.
“Should I?” she replies. “Nothing has been taken. Not yet, anyway. And I'm guessing you wouldn't be here unless you were out of options.”
I almost hug her, but that would be a dumb thing to do right now.
So I keep looking at my shoes.
“You in some kind of trouble?”
The warm shift in her tone surprises me.
I nod slowly.
“Somebody hurt you.”
It isn’t a question.
She’s stating the obvious, and not judging me for it.
Another nod.
“Your parents aren’t in town. You don’t have any ID.”
Her sigh is heavy as she connects the dots.
“And you need a tablecloth because...?”
“I was cold,” I mumble.
“Sleeping rough, huh?”
“In the park.”
“Christ.”
She steps closer to take a proper look at my face and arms.
“You've been through quite a bit, haven't you, hun?”
Something about her words saddens me.
I feel ashamed, but also grateful.
For years, the locals back home have turned a blind eye.
None of our business, I hear them whisper.
Mrs Ambrose is the exception.
She does her best to comfort my mum and offer what little respite she can.
