She sits at the bus stop alone while others stand around her embarrassed to look, their day feeling ruined. Her papers are spread out before her, unfolded — dirty, soft and creased with age. She scans the pages with intent and voraciousness looking for clues for how she got here and why — knowing the answers lie in the scraps before her. She polishes the paper with her finger speeding across the pages, back and forth like a centipede trapped in a shoebox. The bus comes from down the block; the people line up in an orderly fashion; she folds up her papers and gathers her things, finding no answers.