Read Sketches for Free Online Page A

assume you’ve been on the streets less than a year.”
    â€œWhat makes you think I’m on the streets?” I asked.
    â€œJust guessing. People with homes don’t generally do a lot of dumpster-diving. You said that’s where you got the spray paint.”
    â€œThat doesn’t mean I’m living on the streets,” I pointed out.
    â€œNo, that’s true. But consider this clue: you still have the purple paint from yesterday’s work on your hands.”
    I looked down. He was right, there were streaks of purple paint.
    â€œI think that most people who had a place to go would have washed that off when they got home last night.”
    â€œWhat makes you think I didn’t use purple today?” I asked.
    â€œYou didn’t,” he said, shaking his head. “The purple was on yesterday.”
    He was right, which shocked me. How could he tell that as he passed by on a train?
    â€œSo, how long have you been living on the streets?”
    I didn’t answer.
    â€œI have something for you,” he said as he stood up.
    â€œI don’t want anything from you!” I snapped. “Back off!” And I held the can of spray paint out in front of me like a weapon.
    He held up his hands like he was surrendering.
    â€œI have no desire to be part of your next creation. Orange is not my colour.”
    He lowered his hands slowly, reached into his pocket, and pulled something out. “I’m going to leave this right here,” he said as he bent down. “This is my business card.” He reached over and put a rock on top of it so it wouldn’t blow away, then backed off. “I work for a drop-in centre. But if you need a meal or a place to have a shower, don’t bother coming.”
    â€œWhat did you say?” I asked, not believing my ears.
    â€œI said we’re not a place where you can get a meal or get washed up or sleep, although we can help make arrangements for all of those. We’re a different type of drop-in centre.”
    A useless type of drop-in centre was what I wanted to say, but I didn’t.
    â€œWhat we offer involves art. We’re a place where you can get materials, things like paint and canvas, or clay and a potter’s wheel, to use some of that talent you obviously have. The address is on the card. Maybe we’ll see you some time.”
    He started to walk away and then stopped and turned around. “Ask on the street and people will tell you that the centre is legit. Just ask around.”
    He started to walk away a second time and then stopped again. “My name is on the card. I’m Robert Erickson. Who are you?”
    I didn’t answer. That was none of his business.
    â€œOkay, be careful. Maybe we’ll see you at the centre some time.”
    He gave a wave and started up the embankment again.
    â€œHey!” I called out.
    He turned around.
    â€œIt’s Dana.”
    He nodded his head. “Okay, Dana, maybe we’ll see you around. And I really do like what you’ve created here. You have some real talent.”

CHAPTER FOUR
    THE CAT RUBBED UP against my legs. It was a beaten-up old orange cat, thin, its tail bent at the end, and it was missing the very top of one ear. Living on the streets had taken its toll on her.
    â€œYou’re a nice girl, aren’t you?” I said.
    She rose up on her back legs and I reached out to pet her. She pressed against my hands as I scratched behind her ears and she made a noise—a strange sort of noise. I bent down lower to hear. It was sort of a raspy, uneven sound, but it was unmistakable—she was trying to purr. I shook my head. All beaten up, a stray living in the back alleys of the city, and she was still happy because I was showing her a little affection, a little caring. I didn’t know if that was wonderful or sad, or both.
    â€œMaybe I have something for you,” I said. I reached deep into my pocket and pulled out a