Familiar gray eyes sketched in black ink stare back at me. They are eerily identical to my own. Now torn, and weather worn, the old white paper sign is on its last leg. How it survived all those rain storms, and harsh winters was a mystery, but the image is as clear as it was when it was hung five years ago.

The wind from last night's early winter storm brings a gust, causing the paper to peel upwards. It tugs at it, and with each blast begins to free itself from the old wooden telephone pole. It holds strong until a hefty burst tears it apart, and I watch as it floats down the icy streets of Manhattan, like a forgotten memory.

I wipe the stray tear that falls onto my cold cheeks. The past few nights have been brutal with the ice storms, and the snow. I tighten the black and white checkered scarf around my neck, and tug at the knitted hat with holes, then walk in the other direction, holding my head as high as I can.

When I round the corner, I stand on my toes and peek into the abandoned apartment window with the shattered glass. Glancing over my shoulders, I check for anyone walking by. When the coast is clear, I dig my black boots into the brick wall and climb, opening the window and tumbling onto the floor. Two rats have their heads buried in day old Chinese food containers. They scatter at the sound, and I throw the containers towards the filthy vermin, and plop down on the hard floor. I stare at the red graffiti scribbled on the crumbling concrete wall, where the Chinese noodles and sauce are now oozing down.

Lifting the floor board beside me I pull out my jar of cash. It's low on funds. Scraps of change, and a few scraggly dollar bills are curled up inside. I put it back in its hiding spot, and closed up the floor. My stomach growls, and the lack of food courses through me, leaving my head spinning to the point where I have to lay down.

I wake to the sounds of sirens and muffled voices outside my window. A narrow bright light circles the room. I huddle low so they can't see me. Their footsteps pound against the city street, there's yelling, and a radio scanner crackling. A voice shouts, "he went the other way!" before all of the commotion comes to a halt.

I attempt to get to my feet, but my knees wobble. I've spent years keeping myself alive, running from getting close to anyone, and now I'm on my deathbed. I close my eyes and wait for sleep to take over again, so that it can take me away. Night has fallen upon the city, and although it quite literally never sleeps, there's no way I could make any money playing my guitar while feeling this bad.

I lay there on the cold floor, shivering. My teeth chattering. The old ratty comforter I found in someone's trash bin, sits across the room, and I haven't got the energy to fetch it. My eyes flutter closed and I can almost feel the darkness when the window opens. No one else has ever come in here before. I'd move, but all the energy is zapped out of me.

A loud thump echoes through the empty room. I curl into a ball and try to stay still. Their shadow illuminated by the light reminds me of something out of a horror movie. I'm already living one, so it doesn't scare me. At least it's not one of the bad shadows. My pulse dips dangerously low, and if things were normal it would have skyrocketed out of fear.

The footsteps grow closer. I close my eyes and pray that whatever they kill me with they do it fast and painlessly, I've suffered enough. The footsteps come to a halt and I can sense them hanging over me, waiting.I keep my eyes closed and concentrate on the sound of my breathing, in an attempt to drown out the other persons.

"Hello?" A man asks.

A gentle touch grazes my shoulder, and my eyes shoot open. In the darkness all I see is their outline.

"Are you okay?" he whispers.

He pulls out a small flashlight, bangs it, and it flickers on. He keeps it low, and allows the light to dance over me. Placing the light gently on the ground he tears off his leather jacket and lays it over me, then flips a backpack off his back, tugging a canteen from the side pouch.

"When was the last time you ate or drank?"

I moan. "La, la, la, last night."

My arm feels too heavy to lift, and he notices. Bringing the mouthpiece of the canteen to my lips, he urges me to drink. After a few seconds, he places it on the ground beside me, then searches through the main compartment of his backpack, pulling out one of those awful tasting protein bars.

"It's nasty, but it's something."

The package crinkles in his hand. I normally wouldn't take it, but it was unopened, and I'm starved. While holding the bar in his hand he helps me sit up, and adjusts my body so that I'm slumped against the wall, but enough to eat without choking.

I take it from him, and lift it to my mouth. It tastes like cardboard and nature, and I almost gag, but try to stop it, because I need the food. He reaches for another one and eats along with me. We sit in the silent darkness, neither of us talking, even after we both finish the bar. He lifts the canteen and makes me drink again, this time I'm able to help myself.

"Thank you," I say, when my voice returns.

I tighten the opening of his leather jacket around me.

"Are you feeling any better? Sorry it's not much, I - uh - I like to travel light."

"I'm okay, for now."

His eyes land on the guitar that leans against the old metal cabinet in the kitchen. A street lamp illuminates that area of the apartment.

"You're not thinking of stealing that to sell, are you? You'll have to fight me for it."

He chuckles, and the laughter fills me with a warmth that I didn't know I needed. I can't remember the last time someone spoke to me and laughed. It's been so long.

'No, I'm not going to steal your guitar. I don't need the money."

"So then why are you running from the cops? Oh - let me guess you steal jewelry for a living and they caught you selling it at a pawn shop."

He laughs again, and shakes his head. "Do you want any more water?" he asks.

I grab the canteen and throw my head back, allowing the cold water to slide down my throat.

"No, I don't steal. Not jewelry anyway."

"What then? Car parts? Oh, you're a burglar."

"No, none of those. Imagine me like Aladdin, and I'm just a street rat looking to survive out here in this crazy world."

"So get a job."

I hand him the canteen back, even in the dark I can see him shaking it around. Without hesitation he takes a sip.

"Everything was taken from me. My ex-wife decided that in our divorce she would get everything, and she won. Maybe if I'd been able to hold a steady job, we would still be together. What's the point in trying if you get fired after the first month?"

"Ex-wife, what are you like fourty?"

"Twenty-five."

"Creepy man who jumped through my abandoned apartment window, say what?"

His laughter circulates the room, and I can't help smiling, because it's bringing a little normalcy back into my life.

"We were young and stupid and got married at eighteen, right out of high school."

"That was reckless. Was she pregnant?"

"No, but it's about as reckless as you NOT eating," he counters.

"Okay, okay. So you stole those bars."

"I might have borrowed them from the convenience store a few blocks over."

It's my turn to laugh, and it comes out raspier than I remember.

"What's your story, huh? Maybe you're the jewelry thief. Ah - definitely not jewelry, or you'd have money to get food. Struggling street musician." He eyes the guitar."Family abandon you? You got the 'being a musician is a dead-end job speech?" he asks.

"Something like that."

It's more like my family died because of me, because I loved them. It started happening all around me, first my parents, then my best friend a few months later. One day everything was all fine and life was normal, but I had a weird drunken night that ended in a haze. I remember a figure all in black, but what happened after has been wiped from my memory. The next day, my parents had this unfortunate accident. It was like I was cursed. I don't want to tell him that, he'll think I'm crazy.

"I know a good place to find food. If you'll trust me, can I take you on a little adventure?"

"Okay, Aladdin, where's your magic carpet and your pet monkey? If we're singing a duet, I'm not going."

He chuckles. "I promise, no magic carpets, or pet monkey's, just a good hearty meal."

"As long as you don't get me arrested."

"Pinky swear," he says.

I snort. "What are we twelve?"

"You did quote an old kids show before..."

"The fact that you knew that is sad."

A soft laugh leaves his smirking lips. "Come on Princess, you're wasting precious time."