The unsettling smell of smoke and alcohol gathers around the ally. I don't run, I don't walk faster. I do nothing to gather unnecessary attention to myself. Just walk by with my head up, but my hood pulled over my face, like most people here. Stand straight like you belong but keep your face cover in case the police show up. Be able to blend into the background at a moments notice. Morph to you surroundings, act like you belong, where ever you are.

My eyes have adjusted to the dark night and the glare of the neon sighs but they still manage to give me a head ache. I passed the eccentric 'Welcome to Vegas!' sign a few miles back.

I won't be staying long. Just enough to tell Mark I'm okay. He'll try to get me to stay- offer me a room, food, a better life, but we both know I won't stay. I never do.

Most of the buildings in this section are for strip clubs, casinos or bars. Of course there's the lone building or two that belong to a more tame person, like a barber shop or a hair salon, but those signs get easily drown out of the obnoxious glare from everything else going on.

Some parts the air is so hazy, I can barely see ten feet in front of me. My asthmatic lungs hurt from all the smoke but I'm only a few blocks away. And Mark will be worried if I don't check in. He's the only one I've called. Checked in about 30 miles from the last home. He knows my speed. He'll be expecting me today or the next.

The streets are mostly empty, which is strange. It's only 2:18 A.M. and it is Vegas. It's all about the night life, even in the cheaper parts.

Being dressed like a street rat does have its perks. I'm over looked by all the men to drunk or drugged up to tell if I'm a boy or a girl, and to dirty to be given a second glance by the semi-coherent men.

Once I'm out of the worst parts I pull my hood off my head and try to straighten out my messy french braid. Blend in. Look like you belong. Adapt.

I pull next to a large fountain of a angel. How ironic. An angel in sin city. Guess the drunks have to have something to pray to when they can't tell the difference between a fountain and a real angel.

The fading white marbel is cracked and a dark gray in some places.

The water pressure is so low the stream barely falls out of the basket he's holding. His chubby cheeks offer an inviting, cracked smile. Even though this little angel is in the upscale part of town, its still close enough to the slums to be forgotten.

I pull out my water. Its warm water on a freezing night is something to be thankful for. Like almost everything I own, the metal body of the bottle is dented, but I don't care. Its mine, an object I can call my own.

Two blocks to go.

I want to run the rest of the way. Be back with my best friend, feel safe for once. Be wrapped in a warm hug. Tell him about the newest families. But I know its useless. I'll never truly be safe. Why should I even tell Mark about what's going on? I'll just have to shut myself off again once I leave. Better to stay shut off then have to close old wounds.

I walk. Careful to not attract attention to myself. Disappear. Pretend you don't exist.

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Happy 4th!