I walked out, past the before-and-after photos, past the empty reception desk, through the glass doors into the Los Angeles night.
The air was still warm. The street was full of people going to expensive dinners, carrying shopping bags, laughing.
I stood there for a moment, touching the $100 in my pocket.
Then I walked toward the Greyhound station.
My test had just begun.
The bus left Los Angeles at 2:30 p.m. on Wednesday. $147 for a ticket — nearly everything Rachel had given me, plus the few bills I’d tucked away before this started.
Forty-three hours through Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Louisiana.
Forty-three hours to think about what I’d done, what I was doing.
Hours one through twelve: Arizona. I sat beside a woman named Maria, 52, with hands that showed decades of hard work. She was heading to Atlanta to see her mother.
“I clean houses in Phoenix,” she told me as the desert rolled past. “Been saving $200 a month for ten years. Finally had enough for this trip.”
Two hundred a month for ten years. $24,000 to see her mother.
“That’s a long time to save,” I said quietly.
“Some things are worth waiting for,” she smiled. “You visiting someone?”
“My daughter.”
“That’s nice. I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.”
I thought about Rachel’s Cardier watch. Her suggestion that I cut back on treatment.
Anna would do this. I thought Anna would save $200 a month for ten years if that’s what it took.
Hours thirteen through twenty-four: New Mexico/Texas. I couldn’t sleep. The bus rocked. Other passengers dozed against windows. But I sat awake watching the desert stretch endlessly in every direction.
Like the distance between me and Rachel.
I opened my phone and typed a note.
Test number one failed. Daughter who has everything gave $100. Will daughter who has nothing give more?
I stared at those words until my eyes burned.
Hours twenty-five through thirty-six: Louisiana. We stopped in Baton Rouge at 4:00 a.m. The station was fluorescent bright and empty except for a few other passengers and a young woman behind the coffee counter. She looked about 19.
I bought coffee. $2.50 — the most expensive thing I’d purchased since I started pretending to be broke.
She handed me the cup, then paused, studying my face.
“You okay, ma’am?”
I must have looked as exhausted as I felt.
“Just a long trip.”
She glanced around, then reached under the counter and pulled out a muffin, set it beside my coffee.
“On the house,” she whispered. “You look like you need it.”
I stared at that muffin.
This girl — probably making minimum wage at 4 in the morning — giving me free food because I looked like I needed kindness.
“Thank you,” I managed.
Back on the bus, I ate that muffin in the bathroom and cried.
Hours thirty-seven through forty-three: Charleston. The bus pulled into Charleston at 9:30 p.m. Thursday. Meeting Street Station.
I stepped off into humidity that wrapped around me like a blanket.
Home. My city.
I didn’t call a taxi. I couldn’t. I was supposed to be someone who had nothing. So I walked 2.3 miles through downtown Charleston at night, past Rainbow Row — those famous colorful houses I’d photographed a thousand times — past the Battery where the harbor stretched dark and endless, up toward King Street.
My feet ached in my worn shoes. My duffel bag cut into my shoulder.
But I needed this.
I needed Anna to see me like this: desperate, exhausted, with nothing.
The streets were mostly empty. A few couples leaving restaurants. Someone walking a dog. They passed me without looking.
I wondered if this was what it felt like to be invisible.
