Number 18

The faint glimmer of moonlight capable of illuminating even the darkest allies of Chicago is cut off by dark, imperial clouds. Without notice, fine drops of water soar towards the ground. The crystalline rain drops bounce off of the black, paved roads, painted by the traffic lights above. The city’s environment quickly shifts. What was before a calm and quiet night only disturbed by the occasional passing of a car, was now transformed by the escalating roar of rain hitting against anything in its path.

As the water accumulates in the street, it begins rolling towards the curb where it is directed towards the sewer. It falls through the cast iron sewer cover and into the subterranean maze of connected pipes. The calm stream of water flows freely between three blue, plastic milk crates. They are aligned in a row with a fair amount of space between them. Placed on top of the old milk crates, is a long piece of torn up cardboard, probably from a thrown out cardboard box. On top of the makeshift bed of milk crates and cardboard is woman laying on her right side facing the half circle wall in front of her. Parts of her long thick, dark brown hair are dangling from both sides of the milk crates. The ends of her hair are being licked by the subtle running stream of washed away rain water. Covered only by a thin, brown plastic tarp she lays there without motion, as if the tattered and ripped old sheet of plastic was benefiting her futile attempt at keeping warm. The harmonious hum of moving water was from time to time broken by the sharp squeak of a hungry rat.

The rays of sunlight fall through the holes in the sewer covers illuminating the dark underground of the city streets. The woman is laying on her back staring into the f...

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...ticle she had read. With tears rolling down her cheeks she puts the phone up to her ear.

“Chicago police department, how can I help you” Says the man who picks up.

The woman stays silent, not saying a word, only looking at the passing people.

“Hello? “ Says the confused man on the other end of the line.

“My name is Helena Ramos” She whispers with a hopeless voice.

What would she do? What kind of life was waiting for her after being found? She wasn’t ready to face the world as “the eighteenth girl”, as the final piece of an unsolved puzzle. She wasn’t ready, ready to suddenly be thrown back into the world of the same penetrating gazes directed her way every day as she walks down the street.

She let go of the phone leaving it to dangle by its silver chord. With her old back pack and torn piece of cardboard, she walks off into the crowd, never truly fitting in.