When he stands, she draws in on herself, a bundle of clothes and blankets and hair. Pulling her knees in, it's almost as if she could make this all go away if she could just make herself small enough.

Her voice withdraws, too, in its own way. It's easier to tell if she can pretend its that recorder all over again and not him. Not the man she loved above anything else in this place... and possibly above anything she'd left behind. It was easier to tell if she could pretend it was just facts...the kind of thing you read off case files without a face to attach to them.

"There was a priest." Such a cliche, really. Was it less painful if you could laugh at how predictable it was?

"Then, after I ran away, there was a guy. My...my boyfriend. We ran out of money and suddenly..." she trails off, her voice taking on just a slightly biting bit of humor. The kind where no one actually laughs. "Leave it to me to find the one guy who decided it was his life's ambition to be a pimp."

And then had come the unknown faces. And hands. And mouths. Nameless people. The kind that she still worried would recognize her as she worked in the shelter or the post office or even Katherine's cafe. Hey...I know you. You were that chick..."