The white-haired equipment man was hard at work along with one of his sons, a man of fifty or so who was called a clubhouse "boy." I introduced myself... both men squinted at me, measuring, and I said I needed a uniform and a locker."Number matter?" the father said as he stuffed towels into a oversized washing machine."Plenty of cubicles. They's coming and going fast around here," said the younger man. "Been through least a hundred." Any number," I told them, "about a forty-two I suppose." I. ”She flicked damp eyes up at me. “Street people?”“Desperation. Someone who’s trapped. Having no money. I don’t know. Fuck!”She tensed and shied away again.“Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell,” I said. “I’m just... mad at myself.”Kayla hurried past me, grabbing her backpack and ran into the bathroom. When she emerged, she was dressed in fresh clothes. She pulled her coat from the closet and reached for the door.“Wait! Don’t leave. Kayla... Please!”She paused and looked at me.I said, “Please... you. More

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