“Hey” I called to her. She looked up, and I saw beautiful eyes rimmed in red. Was she stoned? She smiled and I saw at once that she had been crying. I rushed over, I would ask her if she’d seen Priscilla. She’d see me as old because I had a (supposedly) adult daughter and an ex-wife, but any chance to talk to her.
“Whats up?” the dialect of youth, I had forgotten it, Priscilla had grown up, at least a little.
“Have you seen this girl, my daughter, she’s staying here, I think, but I can’t find her. That is I mean: she’s missing.” I stammered, I did have those butterflies, “She’s sick” I added.
“Oh,” her face became murky, darker. I couldn’t tell if she was shocked by my outburst, she had seen Priscilla, or was concerned at a “sick” girl wandering the streets, “I can’t remember seeing her, no. You should ask Max at the desk, there are videos I think. I can help you.”
She could help me? I didn’t know what to make of this girl; someone who said she could help me. I squeezed next to her on the chair.