Remember?--Chance

[Street]

Street stood in the shadow of the tall wall of the grandstand of the Sheepshead Bay Racetrack. She was not hiding from the sun or from people, she was hiding from the fact that she was stalking someone. A mark. This fat old guy with the jingly pockets. She had been scrounging in the trash for scraps of food or anything of slight value (her toes barely touching the dirt) when he walked back, laughing that loud donkey laugh and his pockets setting up a huge ruckus. Street had slipped from the steel trash can and followed him to this point, where he stood surrounded by peers. All fat. All donkey laugh. All jingly pockets.

She had hit the jackpot. These old guys probably had enough change and valuables on them to buy a new sweater and several cinnamon buns. And enough to still go into the community pot of the pickpockets. She just needed to think up a plan. Usually, Street was not a planner, but this was a special circumstance. Rich men. All gathered together. She looked at their cheeks and noses, all rosy red. They'd been drinking. Good.

All she needed to do was pretend to beg, drawing their attention to her while her partner picked their pockets. She turned to her partner and opened her mouth, beginning to speak when she realized all she saw was the stone wall of the grand stand. She bit her lip and glanced back at the fat men. They were laughing still. How was she going to do this with no partner? Sometimes, working alone sucked. But the only partner she would ever want to work with is Chance, and lately, he had been distant, often moping about Scout or something. No more time for fun or games or pickpocketing. He had a family now.

Street sank down and wrapped her arms around her knees once she was sitting. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes, but they did not fall. She never cried, it just wasn't practical. Last time she had cried was when she had gotten really sick a couple months ago... When they wouldn't let her take off those shoes. She felt that familiar aching in her chest that she always got when she thought of Chance by himself. And then Chance and Scout together. For some reason, she wanted to grab them and say, 'He's my Chancey'. But she knew how well that would go over.

Her stomach rumbled and with a little difficulty, she extracted two cinnamon buns, both a little squished. She balanced the one on her bony knee and began eating the other. Even if she was starving, she would not eat the other one. That was Chance's.

It had always been his.