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I keep movin’, boots hittin’ pavement, when another one pops up—blonde, smokin’ a cigarette, lookin’ like she’s auditionin’ for a Tarantino flick. “You look lonely, sugar,” she says. Lonely? I’m happier than a pig in mud alone, ya harpy. “I’m gonna scalp ya if ya don’t scram,” I mutter, channelin’ Aldo. She blinks, confused. Good. Hate when they don’t get it. Did ya know, in old France, they branded prostitutes with a fleur-de-lis? Marked ‘em like cattle. Brutal, but kinda badass.

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By the time I get home, I’m exhausted. I flop on my couch, and I just think about the day. It was a mess, but it was real. I mean, life in Hoogvliet is like that, right? One minute you’re helping a guy find his cat, and the next, you’re comforting a friend over his grandma. It’s all part of the gig.

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