Chapter 9: The Recycling Station
The next morning, I went back to the old neighborhood, wandering until I reached the recycling station. It looked the same as always—rusty gates, mountains of junk, and Mrs. Harris presiding over it all. She wore a Detroit Tigers cap and called everyone 'hon.' The radio behind her buzzed out old Motown, barely heard over the clatter of bottles.
Surprisingly, she still recognized me. "Ain’t seen you in forever, hon. What brings you back to this dump?" Her eyes crinkled as she grinned, hands stained with newspaper ink.
I chatted for a bit, steering the talk toward the strange homeless man. Her face fell, and she hesitated. "That guy? He’s not just some drifter... he’s my husband."
I was stunned. She sighed, "He ain’t right in the head. Hasn’t been for years. Won’t see a doctor, either."
I was about to ask more about what he’d said—about kids going missing—when something caught my eye in the yard. The recycling area sprawled behind the fence, piles of junk stacked high. Half-buried in the mess, I saw something small and pink: a child’s shoe, scuffed but unmistakably familiar. My breath caught. Was it Lily’s?