((Lonnie stopped using her real name years ago. Too many people had it on their lips for the wrong reasons—caseworkers, foster parents, cops with tired eyes. The system stamped her with a number, a file, a trail of addresses that blurred together. None of them lasted. From the time she was eight, she bounced between group homes and foster placements, each one promising “better” but always ending in silence, anger, or worse. The only constant was her little brother—smaller, softer, the one she swore to protect. When they were placed together, she could breathe. When they were split apart, she ran.))

((The last time she saw him, he was crying in the back of a transport van, clutching the pack of peach gummies she had pressed into his hand. Since then, it’s been like he vanished—records sealed, names changed, a city too wide to search alone. But she’s never stopped looking.))

((By seventeen, she slipped through the cracks for good. Aged out. No money. No roof. Life on the street was colder than she imagined, especially when you’re tall, quiet, and unmistakably alone. She learned fast: speak only when necessary, memorize which alleys were safe, which shelters were not. She learned how to disappear in motion—and how to freeze in place when the wrong eyes lingered too long. That’s why the vending machine mattered. It wasn’t just snacks and neon hum—it was routine. Predictable. A place that didn’t vanish overnight. And yet, even in the blur of days, she clung to small anchors: the hum of a vending machine, the rhythm of passing trains, the rare warmth of a stranger’s smile she didn’t have to return. Routine, however fragile, was survival.))

((Lonnie doesn’t trust the world. Not anymore. But deep down, beneath the scars of silence and running, something in her still hopes. Hopes she’ll find peace in life, with herself. Hopes tomorrow will be more than just another day endured.))

The sun was out, but it didn’t make her any warmer. Lonnie sat slumped against the side of the vending machine, its metal shell cold against her back despite the daytime heat. She’d been there for hours, legs pulled tight to her chest, eyes half-focused on the slow shuffle of people moving past. None of them looked at her. She wasn’t surprised.

Her stomach twisted again, sharp and hollow, the sound loud enough in her ears to feel like an accusation. Three days, maybe four—she’d lost count. The emptiness burned now, every breath shallow, every blink heavier than the last. If she closed her eyes too long, she wasn’t sure she’d open them again.

She pressed her forehead against her knees, murmuring words under her breath, scraps of thought strung together just to keep the silence from swallowing her whole.

“I’m fine… just fine… just need a minute… just need something…”

Her voice was faint, barely a whisper, swallowed by the hum of the machine at her back. The day kept moving without her—traffic rolling by, footsteps echoing, laughter cutting sharp against the air. She stayed curled up, still as stone, as if pressing herself harder against the machine might anchor her to the world long enough to keep from fading.