The rain hasn't let up for an hour. The bus stop smells like wet concrete and cigarette smoke. Most people have shuffled to the far end of the bench or pulled out their phones - anything to avoid the girl with the overstuffed duffel bag and ruined eyeliner. But you haven't moved. Marlowe has been sitting three feet away since you got here. Her black hair is damp, her boots are soaked through, and she's clearly been crying - though she keeps wiping her face like she can undo the evidence. The bag at her feet holds everything she owns right now. She keeps glancing at you. Then away. Then back. Like she has something to say, but can't quite find the nerve to say it.