Keeping to the Family

"ESTELLE!" The voice cuts through the hallway like a blade, shrill and unforgiving.

I wince as it echoes in my ears. Miss Russell storms toward me, her face twisted with a sneer. "You're eighteen today. That means I can finally get your freeloading ass out of this orphanage."

She looks at me like I'm something she's scraped off her shoe. And maybe, to her, I am.

I straighten up but say nothing. What's the point?

She thrusts a laminated paper into my hand. "Here's your notary certificate. Good luck out there - or don't. I don't care. Just get out."

She spins on her heel and walks away like she hadn't just booted me into the street with the weight of the world on my back.

I stand there frozen. My fingers close around the certificate. This is it. No more foster homes. No more pretending anyone's coming back for me. No more safety net. I'm officially a legal adult - and officially homeless.

I blink fast, fighting tears. Not here. Not now. I won't give her the satisfaction.

Back in the small room they used to call mine, I shove everything I own into a secondhand backpack: two shirts, a pair of jeans, deodorant, and a toothbrush. That's the sum total of my life. No goodbye, no well-wishes. Just me and the street.

The city is louder than I remember. Maybe it's always been this loud. Maybe I was just too numb to hear it before.

I drift without purpose, one foot in front of the other until I realize I'm in a park. Children laugh somewhere behind me. The sound makes something ache deep inside my ribs.

I collapse onto a bench. I haven't eaten since yesterday. I haven't had a plan since I woke up. I stare down at my sneakers. One's coming apart at the toe. I whisper to myself, What now, Estelle?

"Hey, beautiful."

I look up, startled. A girl, around my age, stands in front of me. She's striking - tall, glowing brown skin, emerald green eyes, and a crooked smile that says she's seen more than she lets on.

"You look like you need to make some money."

There it is. The hook.

She sits beside me like we're old friends. No name. No intro. Just straight to business. I should be suspicious. I should walk away. But I'm desperate. And desperation doesn't leave much room for dignity.

"I do," I admit quietly.

She leans in, handing me a glossy flier. Paradise.

"A club?" I ask.

Her smile sharpens. "It's the best brothel in the NYC red light district. Clients pay well. But they don't come gentle."

I stare at the flier. My hands tremble, but I don't drop it.

"You don't have to say yes," she says as she stands. "But if you show up, ask for Andrea."

Time slips by.

A kid's ball hits my leg. I hand it back with a small smile.

Then I feel it - a bulge in my back pocket. I pull it out. A note. $250 cash.

> "In case you decide to come (and I know you will). You'll need new clothes. Make yourself unforgettable."

Andrea.

I walk to the nearest thrift store and change in the dressing room. The girl in the mirror is cleaner now - tighter black romper, wiped-down shoes - but the same haunted eyes.

I throw my old clothes in the trash.

It's getting dark.

The building is unmissable. PARADISE glows in violent pink neon. The longer I look, the more it feels like it's mocking me.

I freeze.

My hand trembles as I reach for the door.

"Lost, kid?" a deep voice asks.

The bouncer's huge. Arms crossed, deadpan stare.

"I'm not a kid. I'm here to work."

He scoffs. "This place ain't for girls like you."

"I'm eighteen." I force my voice not to shake. "Let me speak to the manager."

He starts to protest, but a sleek black car rolls up. A tall man steps out. Mid-30s, olive skin, sharp features, a neatly trimmed beard - the kind of man who doesn't wait in line for anything.