Armadillo

They found her three blocks from where she started. Curled tight in a doorway, knees to chest, arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to hold the pieces together.

I’d seen it before. The city does that—presses down until you fold inward. Some people call it survival. I call it what it is: dying slow.

The foil wrapper caught my eye on the way back to the car. Crumpled in the crack between two slabs of concrete, balled up tight like it was protecting something that wasn’t there anymore. An armadillo, I thought. Stupid thing to think. But that’s what happens when you work cases like these—you start seeing yourself in the garbage.

She’d been on the run. Ex-boyfriend with bad intentions and worse friends. The kind of guy who doesn’t take no for an answer, and when he does, he makes you regret it. She thought if she made herself small enough, invisible enough, the world would pass her by.

But rolling into a ball just makes you easier to kick.

I helped her into the backseat. Drove her to a shelter on the east side. Gave her my card. She wouldn’t look at me. Just stared at her hands, clenched tight.

“You can’t stay curled up forever,” I said.

She didn’t answer. Maybe she didn’t believe me. Maybe she’d learned the hard way that armor only works until it doesn’t.

I lit a cigarette and drove into the night. The city pressed down. It always does.