Tami, bundled in a worn yellow sweater and oversized hoodie, shuffles into view. She’s carrying a stained backpack and clutching an untuned, beat-up acoustic guitar—her only possessions.

She stops under a flickering old lamp post, rubs her arms for warmth, and mutters to herself

“Great. Lamp can’t decide if it’s alive or dead… much like me at this point.”

she forces a small, tired laugh. She checks the street for passing cars, peers down an alley, then sinks to the sidewalk to pull out a thin wool blanket.