I’m alone in the middle of this strange city. As I mindlessly wander the sweltering,  narrow alleyways, I hope it’s just me and the feral cats chasing terrier-sized rats. It’s almost  impossible to see much of anything, even with the flickering streetlights. The one nearest me  gives up the ghost; I squint up to see the stars, but the dilapidated skyscrapers block out the sky  like prison bars.  

I sigh and idly wonder how this day got so far off course. The morning had glowed bright  and promised dreamlike adventures, not nightmarish horrors. I’d boarded the Greyhound,  refreshed and eager for my summer vacation to commence. I was disembarking at my stop, ready  for the brief jaunt to the international air port. There, I was going to meet up with my cousins  before we boarded for our trip to France.  

A tom-cat’s yowling screech drags me back to my desperate present situation. Cautiously,  I pick out a path through the vile, trash-strewn trail. Discolored beer glass cracks mournfully  under my worn-thin Converse high-tops. A languid breeze wails. I startle when at least a dozen  frayed trash bags writhe miserably to life in the wind. A particularly large white one reminds me  of a phantom as it jerks against its barbed-wire fence jailer.  

I wish I had my cellphone. If only I wasn’t jostled as I was digging it out of my Levi’s  this morning. I was only able to glance at the text before my iPhone made a suicidal jump to the  asphalt. I’d sighed. Whatever “urgent message” my perpetually hyper cousin had to tell me  would have to wait until we were face to face. At the time, I thought she just “had to share” she’d  discovered that some super famous, hot pop singer or actor had visited this café or that historical site, and, (of course), couldn’t I shift our trip’s agenda around so we could visit it, too? I’d  laughed to myself and trotted off. Soon, however, I realized that something was seriously wrong.  Instead of well-cared for modern architecture, I was being engulfed by decaying buildings from  the last century. Digging around for a map, I shifted my backpack to one shoulder. Out of the  corner of my eye, I saw the flash of a blade as a thief slashed through my backpack’s strap and  bolted away.  

For what had seemed an eternity I stood, petrified as the shock sank into me, cold and  terrifying. I resumed my wandering.  

In the alley, I’m dully aware of the deepening darkness: the ghastly moon has faded into  oblivion. I shudder despite the suffocating heat, for predators love to hunt in the dark. It’s now  that I realized what my cousin had been trying to warn me about. She must’ve been trying to tell  me that earlier she told me the wrong stop to get off at! And so, I realize the gravity of my  situation. I am a lone high school girl in the innards of a strange, dangerous city without a map,  wallet, or anyway to contact a rescuer. Alone, I am an easy target.  

My fears are soon confirmed. I am warily scurrying past an abandoned factory when I  hear the raucous shouts of a pack of teens. The stench of pot fills my nostrils, and I gag. I turn a  corner and see them, lounging around on the factory’s front entrance steps. By the glow of the  joints, there’s at least half a dozen of them. I long to turn around and run before I am spotted, but  I know I cannot go back. I have no choice but to go forward. So I slink softly into the deep  shadows on the opposite side of the avenue and begin my treacherous passage. 

I am two-thirds of the way past them when I stumble on the cracked sidewalk. The  chatter stops. The gang certainly knows I am here now. I scramble to my feet but force myself to walk calmly away. I hear the scraping of combat boots as one of them rises to his feet. My heart  sinks. Then a goon charges at me, bellowing like a deranged bull. I quicken my pace but refuse  to run, knowing if I do, the entire pack will certainly hound me. He body-slams me. Startled, I  squeak. I skid across the unforgiving concrete into the side of an overflowing dumpster.  Something putrid and moist oozes all over my right side and down my T-shirt’s collar. This  seems to satisfy the jerk, for he lopes back to his guffawing fellows who are watching from the  depths of the shadows. Gasping for air, I choke on a hot trickle of bitter blood trailing down my  tongue to my throat. Stiffly, I pull myself to my feet. I don’t even look back; I just limp away. 

The night is oppressively dark now. I just want to curl up into fetal position and weep, but  I force myself to keep moving. I resolve to move to stay alive, for I realize now I am certainly  prey. Prey must be silent and constantly moving to survive to see the sunrise. 

So all night long I slip in and out of shadows. Past bars filled with profanity. Past the high  who have passed out in the streets. Past crumbling mansions, haunted by the broken and  hopeless. Past shoddy shanty towns run rampant by disease of body and soul. Past a graffitied cathedral, long ago left desolate. I search for relief from the hounding hopelessness, but find  none. No, not a single scrap of empathy, not a drop of compassion, not even a fleck of kindness.  The poor souls dwelling in this cesspool are as cankered and broken as the buildings. They are  more lost than I am.