"Where you from?" Dad asked.
"Latvia. I remember catching salmon this big," the man stretched his arms out and sucked his lip, "I want to go fishing." He ripped the lid off the coffee, spilling some on his Levis.
We found Maria around the block under a bus stop. A quiet man with a cataract looked at us. He had a soft European face. A young guy lurked around with a black security jacket.
Maria talked to Andre, a tall handsome Pole with shaggy hair and scruff. A raw scar exposed his nose bone. "Think of your children," she said, "Imagine how embarrassed they are that their father's a homeless drunk. We can help you. Find Ilia and we can have a car pick you up."
Andre shut his eyes and sighed through the corner of his lips.
"Do you want to freeze to death like the others. Winter's coming," Maria said in Ukrainian. "Here's my number and 50 cents." Andre chuckled and kissed Maria's temple. She squirmed her eyes and looked away. "Find Ilia and call me, Andre."
We walked with Maria back to the Shell gas station. A Latino man dragged his leg down Milwaukee. He limped a couple yards and stopped. An older guy ran into him with his mountain bike. A tall Pole with brown teeth loitered around the vacuums. A middle-aged women with a red swollen face paced across Belmont and back. They weren't going anywhere.
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