Jackpot

    She doesn't come to this dumpster for food.

    It's situated behind an architect's office and she has no idea that if she would let herself be seen he would leave her some soup, stew, porridge, ripe bananas—something tender and nutritious—because his brother was found on Market Street one night, rotten teeth halfway down his throat, stuck in a hunk of cheese that was much harder in the middle than it was on its edges and his hunger so sharp that he jammed the whole wad into his mouth and upon realizing he couldn't chew it, tried to swallow the thing hole and it choked him to death.

    But she's not here to eat.

    Thirty-five, looking that and ten; fifteen even. The yellow sun sinking behind the gilded dome of City Hall. She stares off into the coming night as she clasps squares of bubble wrap—sheets of them, a stash—holds them to her chest and squeezes, one dot at a time then handfuls in rapid fire, her ruddy face registering a kind of bliss as if she can see the air she's emancipating float down the alley and into the sheltering sky.