it took five work days for jules to feel secure enough in her job performance to tell rachel about the initial confusion. she played it off as a joke, but the woman didn’t find it funny.

“dear lord, what have i done...”

jules forced a nervous chuckle and stacked another upside-down chair on one of the shop’s three tables. “don’t worry about it. you couldn’t have known it was me!”

rachel dropped her broom and grasped jules by the shoulders. “i was so cruel... dear jesus, i JUDGED you.”

jules’ eyes grew wide.

“and you’ve been such a good worker! how could i—” the woman froze. her mouth gaped subtly and her eyes lost focus. jules watched the puzzle pieces click. “you were sleeping in a train station... you wear that same shirt and skirt every day...” rachel’s eyes snapped back to jules. “where do you go every night?”

jules playfully grabbed the woman’s wrists and shook her. “rachel, i’m fine! i’m going to start saving my paychecks until i can afford—”

“you’re homeless.”

jules never thought about it that way; she’d been “homeless” for two years. “i promise you—”

“stop right there. i’m going to fix this. okay? i am going to fix this tonight.”

over the next three hours, rachel proceeded as if she’d spent her whole life waiting for a stray girl to wander into her shop (a notion confirmed by the seven cats whose photos she kept in her purse).

two oak doors stood side-by-side in the back hallway. the first opened to a staircase that led to rachel’s one-bedroom condominium. the second contained a storage closet (she called it her “shed”) with a slab floor, plywood walls, the moist underside of the stairway, a single naked bulb with a pull chain made of yarn, and a folded green cot.

“it’s not much—”

“it’s perfect,” jules said. and she meant it.

for dinner, rachel surprised her with hamburgers.

jules considered biting the bullet and eating the beef for the sake of politeness... but there were some values that couldn’t change. she explained to the carnivore that she was a leaf-eater. rachel felt so bad that she left the shop and returned ten minutes later with a veggie burger and onion rings.

“you’re amazing,” jules said. “i’ve been living off bread samples for a week.”

“eat it up. tomorrow we’re going to peruse the luscious racks of the salvation army.” her hands twirled at the word “luscious.” “we’re gonna find you some cute clothes. i’ll talk to harvey in the morning, too. we’re going to cut you a paycheck for a one-month advance.”

jules accepted rachel’s generosity and thanked her until tears swept the woman’s pulpy cheeks (”i’m an easy crier,” she said). as the sweet, bubbly, NORMAL teenage girl tucked a borrowed sheet into the bars of her new cot and hung her only outfit on a rogue nail, she felt a familiar urge in the stony depths of her gut.

run away, julesie, it said. get the hell out of this town and don’t ever look back.

*  *  *

at the pier’s base, jules felt confident in her agility. but as she rounded the first lighthouse with a net, pole, tackle box, blue-jean backpack, bread, thermos and chair, her hands and arms were losing their grip on the cumbersome equipment. she stopped to reassemble the supplies, then forged on to the pier’s tip with the pole and chair clanking the cement behind her.

the rusty gear was purchased at a yard sale that morning. it gave her the perfect excuse.

she settled in the shade of the square lighthouse and watched her fellow fishermen puncture the multiple hearts of squirming bait. though her vegetarianism showed no particular affinity toward worms, jules opted to string her hook with a lump of nine-grain whole-wheat bread. with any luck, the fish would ignore her high-fiber trap and live another day without pierced lips.

the tackle box had a mirror built in the lid. she pursed her glossy pink lips and straightened a gap in her new bangs.

by observing an elderly gentleman’s press-and-release motion, jules was able to easily cast (with a soft and satisfying plunk) her line, hook, bobber and bread into the muted sea.

five minutes later, the red and white sphere jerked below the water’s surface and jules twirled the reel like an old pro, half excited, half mortified at what could be garnishing the end of her string. 

there wasn’t a fish, but some little bugger stole her bread.

lone footsteps shuffled the pavement behind her. a bag thumped the ground. someone—MALE by the sound of the breathing—perched themselves on the lighthouse ledge.

jules opened the tackle box and angled the mirror toward the legs of the stranger and a familiar orange backpack.

she twisted her head... but it was a man in his early fifties, clearly surprised by her accidental provocation.

“sorry,” she said and returned to her busywork. “thought you were somebody else.”

“any luck?” the man’s voice was deep with sandpaper gruff.

she shook her head and jabbed another crumb on the hook. “not yet.”

*  *  *

on her third lighthouse voyage, jules caught a fish.

the man with the orange backpack was in his usual spot when she felt the tug. 

she gasped and frantically wobbled the crank. 

the man dropped his own rod and rushed to her side. “looks like a big one,” he said.

jules pressed the base of the bending stick into her stomach until a hysterical fin and scaly flesh broke the surface. “am i hurting him?” she asked.

“hold tight!” the man reached out his arm to steady the tip of her rod. “almost got ‘em.”

the creature was seven inches long and thrashed wildly between the girl and man.

“guess the little fella likes bread,” he said.

“can you get him off?” jules was afraid of the hook, not the fish.

the man gripped the line above the fish, then clutched the squirming animal behind the gills and deftly removed the metal from its mouth. “dinner?” he asked.

“no...” she replied, then held out her hands and took the fish.

“hold him tight or he’ll bounce.”

she squeezed it gently and peered at her own reflection in its hollow eye. 

she stooped to her knees, then elbows, then laid on her stomach and dipped her hands and fish in the water. she released her grip and let it go.

she stood and thanked the man, then wiped her hands on her khaki shorts.

“no problem,” he said.

“do you come straight from work?” she nodded to the folded suit and balled tie that crowned his bag.

“tuesdays and thursdays. you work at the grand harbor bread co?”

jules glanced at the apron protruding from her own bag. “mm.”

the man settled back to his ledge and spooled his line.

jules sat in her chair. she untied the bloody hook and replaced it with a harmless sinker. she snapped her wrist and cast the line back to the lake.

“sometimes i forget the bate too,” said the man with the orange backpack. “guess there’s more to fishing than catching fish.”

*  *  *

jules already finished her shift before she left for the pier, but offered to close up shop so rachel could nurse a developing cold.

“you’re a doll,” the woman said and blotted her nostrils with a napkin. “add an hour to your timecard and get some rest.”

she replied with a wink and said, “g’night boss.”

jules enjoyed her time alone. she finished sweeping, threw away the leftover samples, scrubbed the stainless steel appliances, and watered the potted geraniums out front. 

penmanship was never her strong suit, but with slow strokes and intentional focus she was able to make presentable the “our daily bread” chalkboard. in yellow and orange alternating letters she wrote, “FRIDAY SPECIAL: CINNAMON WALNUT,” then stepped back, cocked her head, and took pride in the minor accomplishment.

lights out, clothes off, sitting in her cot with pillows propped against exposed wooden beams, jules penned her first letter to dusty since the jacksonville bathroom. she unclasped her wallet, removed a twenty-dollar bill and pressed it between the folded note like a rose petal in a dictionary. she briefly wondered what her thirteen-year-old brother might do with the cash— she was buying weed at thirteen.

she removed a calendar of local attractions from beneath her cot. the grand-harbor lighthouses domineered the month of july. she flipped ahead and circled the first of september. inside the circle she wrote, “$900 apt down payment.”