She sits with her knees up on the seat across from me in the run down Burger King. Its 11:30 at night: we shouldn’t be here, but yet we are, not ordering food, just sitting in silence. It’s quiet: just a disheveled man eating a burger in the corner table, and an exhausted looking woman with her fidgety son. I turn back to face her slight frame, and she runs her hands through her long strawberry blonde hair and gives me a weary smile. I look at her, speculating why she insisted being here at this time. We had snuck out of the house, and walked the almost vacant streets of Charlestown. This was our real home, and she told me that she felt like she belonged here: with the grunge and sins that swirled around this neighborhood, unlike Winchester, and its clean, gentrified feel. “I think I understand,” I spoke at last, “There’s something in the air, that draws me here,” I looked over at her, and caught her giving me a gaze of dazed recognition. She abruptly grabbed my hand and started to tear down the cracked sidewalk, like there was a demon chasing after us. The running ended here: the dilapidated Burger King, seven blocks from where we had snuck out, in complete silence. I give her a look of confusion and she stares at me with her striking, poignant, hazel eyes. She takes a shaky breath, opens her mouth, and the faucet of tribulations and doubts pour out of her once and for all.