Making a last note in her journal, Emily closed its worn leather cover, tucked it into her bag and glided quietly out of the diner. It was time to move on, as it always was, one institution to the next, one foster home to the next, and so on.

Outside, she turned right. She should have turned right. There on the sidewalk was her erstwhile dining companion, the flapper with the loose mouth, staring down two absolute goons. You know the type, bowler hats askew and suspenders slung over bulging muscles.

A whisper in her ear urged her on, and Emily slid in beside the quaking young woman, “What did you do?”

“She ain’t paid her tab, if ya’ know what I mean,” one of the thugs grunted.

“I don’t,” Emily said sharply, then raised her hand before he could explain, “and I don’t want to.”

“Mebbe you wants to pay it for her?” the other thug chimed in, cracking his knuckles in a neandrathalic way. The flapper looked desperate.

Emily sighed, “Okay,” and the men were flung across the street with a wave of her hand.