What Satellites Don’t Know - by Rita Rieffenberger

In satellite photos taken of the United States at night there is a large, lake of darkness that is Nevada. In the lake there is a bright island – the brightest in the world. This is a city nicknamed “Sin City.” A city where you can get married by Elvis with no questions asked. A city where you can make or lose a fortune. A city that vibrates with the ebb and flow of booze, strippers, tourists, and electricity. It is the oasis in Nevada’s desolate dessert.

On a summer morning in this oasis, a woman named Jenny Page, is asleep on the 38th floor of a major casino. She lays with a crème colored sheet draped over her legs and her hair cascading across a down pillow. Her lips, still stained with yesterday’s lipstick, are slightly parted. Her arm rests on the curve of her side covering a jagged, pink scar that tattoos her ribs.

Jenny wakes up with a familiar feeling: brain clouded with a dull ache, body pinned down with gravity, nausea pulsing through her stomach, wondering where she is. A vaguely familiar rasping noise has woken her. She turns towards the source and finds the shape of a middle-aged man snoring in bed next to her.

She sits up and waits for her double vision to focus. Blinking her eyes in an attempt to gain clarity, she surveys the room around her. The room is large with beige carpet, and there are big windows covered with darker beige curtains. The bedspread is striped green and pink, matching the floral paintings on the wall across from her. Next to her is a small, oak table with a phone and lamp.

From these clues Jenny deduces that she is in a suite in The Bellagio. The fog in her head starts to clear, and Jenny remembers the events of last night and who the man next to her is. His name is Bob Lewart, and he’s a businessman from Philadelphia. Last night he won $150,000 at the craps table; Jenny’s wallet is now fatter with $1,500 of it.

She pulls herself out of bed wearing only a lacey, black Louis Vuitton bra. She stumbles around the room gathering her scattered belongings, hopping into her underwear, shimmying into her black dress, and strapping on her 3-inch stilettos. In the bathroom she runs her fingers through her long, blonde hair and attempts to rub off the disheveled makeup from under her eyes.

Jenny heads for the door and takes a last look at Bob. “Poor bastard,” Jenny says to herself with a satisfied smile on her face. His plane leaves in three hours, and he’ll be back in Pennsylvania with his wife, kids, and over $130,000 dollars. Vegas and Jenny will just be a wild memory and a great story to tell his poker buddies.

She takes the elevator down and goes through a back way – the employee way. As she passes the maids whisper, but she doesn’t care. People say a lot of things.

Jenny doesn’t have a job in the traditional sense of the word. Her job is to smell good. Her job is to have perfectly styled hair, perfectly lined eyes, and a perfect smile that can blind any eye. Her job is to accentuate her three-foot long legs and her cleavage. Her job is to be present at the casinos with the confidence of a queen and be able to smell wealth better than a bloodhound.

Her job is to con rich men out of their money. She usually does this with the power of seduction.

Some would say this makes Jenny’s job prostitution. But she doesn’t consider it that. Some would say this is degrading. But Jenny doesn’t see it that way, either. She knows who is in charge and who has the power.

For her it’s the men who are degraded. It’s the men who drool over her glowing skin and spend their winnings on gifts of designer clothes, five star dinners, Jacuzzi suites, and often a portion of their winnings. It’s the starry-eyed men, who come to Vegas with dreams of riches and beautiful blondes attached to their arms, that fall under the enchantment of Jenny’s blue eyes.

Just like Bob Lewhart. He was a particularly big sucker, Jenny thinks as she exits The Bellagio. The blaring sunlight stops her in her tracks and brings back the throb in her head. The hot air outside sharply contrasts the crispness of the air-conditioned air inside. She fishes through her purse and produces an over-sized pair of Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses.

The Strip is already filled with tourists. There are old people shuffling along in sweat suits and fanny packs. There are parents with their children attached to leashes. There are men passing out flyers with pictures of strippers. And there is Jenny whose heels click across the sidewalk already littered with these flyers.

She lights up a Camel Filter and walks the nine blocks to her apartment. She lives on the second floor of a run-down building east of the Strip. Calling it a shit hole might be an understatement. She could afford something better but doesn’t see the point of it.

Before ascending the stairs, Jenny stops and pets a mangy, brown dog. This dog is always waiting here, for what Jenny doesn’t know. But she pets him every time in spite of his undesirable appearance. He looks at her with hopeful eyes. What he really wants is food, but Jenny doesn’t have any. Maybe next time I’ll bring him something, Jenny thinks for the hundredth time.

Her apartment is dimly lit with sunlight filtered through red curtains. It is a studio and isn’t furnished except for a mattress on the floor. On the floor is also a carpet of fancy clothes mixed with the sharp spikes of heels.

She strips off the clothes she just put on and adds them to the pile on the floor. She picks her way through the mess, careful not to impale herself with a stiletto, and collapses on her mattress to sleep off the hangover.

She wakes up at about three o’clock and begins her daily routine. Jenny gets in the shower and shampoos and conditions, then shaves and exfoliates. She gets out of the shower and moisturizes, plucks, and whitens. With layers of makeup she conceals the circles under her eyes. Then she paints those eyes like Cleopatra and her nails the color of blood.

Slowly she picks out her outfit. A pair of dark wash, skinny fit True Religion jeans, compliments of a Russian businessman who smelled like onions. A silver, sparkly top that scoops just low enough, which was given to her by a handsome, young millionaire. A pair of black, Gucci heels that came from some man who is now only a blurry image in Jenny’s mind. She adorns the outfit with shiny jewelry from Tiffany’s; a gift she gave herself.

She swallows a Vicodin, then crushes up another one and snorts it. The hip drug of choice in Vegas is ecstasy, followed by lines of cocaine as the drug fades. But ecstasy makes people emotional and careless, and Jenny cannot afford either of those attributes.

She wonders when the last time she was completely sober. But quickly shrugs off this thought as she takes one last look in the mirror, squirts herself with Chanel and leaves. Through the neon jungle Jenny makes her way back to The Bellagio. With a cigarette in hand she walks past the sunken ship of Treasure Island and past the volcano at The Mirage. Across the street from the Eiffel Tower, she enters The Bellagio just as the fountains begin to erupt.

“Hey Jenny! What’s up girl?” asks a valet driver in a red suit.

“Hey Johnny! Oh you know, the usual,” says Jenny with a wink.

“All right. Well let me know if you need anything,” says Johnny returning her wink. Jenny knows everyone at The Bellagio; this is where she does her business. Valets are particularly good people to know. They know who’s coming and going at all times. And usually based on what car the customers drive and how much money they tip, valets have a pretty good idea of how much money the customers have. Also, valets will get you whatever you want for the right price: drugs, hookers, special invites, limo rides, anything.

Inside the ground-level casino there are hundreds of people gambling, moving, gawking, and searching for their next machine, drink, or activity. The sea of people is throbbing with the bustle. And through this sea Jenny walks with a certain calculated stillness. There is something about the stride of her legs and the slow swing of her hips that contrast the chaos surrounding her. But the shine in her eyes, smile, and hair seems to reflect Vegas itself.

She walks through the casino waving and saying hello to the dealers and attendants. She goes to The Petrossian Bar. Jenny has the ability to drink for many consecutive hours. She sits at the bar, and the bartender places a gin and tonic in front of her.

Everyone here knows Jenny. They know that Jenny comes with money and that money tips big. They know what she drinks, they know what men she’s looking for, and they know that Jenny always gets what she wants.

They don’t know that Jenny’s last name is Page and that she lives in a shitty, studio apartment. They don’t know that Jenny has moved twenty-one times in her twenty-seven years, or that she has never seen her father.

Jenny was born in a small town in Illinois to a mother with irresistible looks and poor decision-making skills. Her mother bounced from job to job, from town to town, and from boyfriend to boyfriend. They moved each time her mother had another disastrous breakup.

At the age of thirteen Jenny’s mother left to Florida with her latest meal ticket, and Jenny moved to her Grandma’s in Clarksville, Indiana.

Jenny grew up tall and developed early. Everyday she looked more and more like her mother. By the time she was in eighth grade, Jenny was dating juniors and seniors in high school.

At the age of seventeen Jenny left Indiana without a diploma to follow her boyfriend who was pursuing his rock star dreams in Los Angeles. But her boyfriend wasn’t the next Jimi Hendrix, and their relationship ended within months of the move.

Jenny stayed on the west coast and went through boyfriend after boyfriend in search of her prince charming and the true love that Disney movies had promised her. She searched for what her mother never had, but only found herself in the same footsteps she had tried to avoid.

At the age of twenty-one, alone and bitter, Jenny swore off the idea of love. At the time she was working at a bar in the Los Angeles Airport. Rich men would come in and buy her drinks and offer to take her to dinner. Jenny would agree for the opportunity of a free meal. Soon she realized how much these men were willing to pay for her company. After a while she was able to spot them. The men whose eyes glinted when they met hers, who had an indent on their left index fingers from absent wedding rings, who wore thousand dollar suits, drank scotch on the rocks, and tipped in twenties.

Many of these men, Jenny found, were coming from or going to Las Vegas. One weekend Jenny and a friend took a trip there. It was Jenny’s first time and a week later she moved to Vegas.

She started as a bartender and learned the ways of Vegas and the casino quickly. She started slowly by swindling a rich man here and there, but after two years Jenny was making enough to quit bartending all together.

But these thoughts don’t cross Jenny’s mind as she sips her drink. Jenny doesn’t think about the past or the future, only the present. She sits there for two cocktails and jokes with the bartender and other regulars. Then Bruce Spencer, the casino floor manager, comes in. “Hello Doll,” he says with velvet voice. He puts one arm around her, and she kisses him on both cheeks. “So how’d it go with that Philly guy?” Bruce asks. Bruce is from the east coast and has a fading accent that could be either from New Jersey or Massachusetts.

Jenny gives a modest smile. “Very, very well to say the least.”

“I knew that guy was rolling in it when he tipped me $100 for exchanging his money. Listen to me Jenny. I know who’s a sucker and who isn’t.”

“Don’t worry, Bruce, you know I always listen to you. And just so you know, it was me who told him to tip you well.”

Bruce smiles widely showing the hint of a gold veneer. “That’s what I love about you Jenny, always looking out for us.”

“That’s because I know who takes care of me.”

“Well, speakin’ of taking care of you, I actually came here to tell you that some well-to-do lawyer from Chicago just got here. He just started playin’, and so far he’s hot.”

“Hhm. I was sort of thinking of taking it easy, because I made out so well last night. But I was just about to step out for a cigarette, so I’ll check it out.”

Bruce escorts Jenny down to the casino. As they part ways, Jenny sees the man Bruce was talking about. He’s tall and looks a close to fifty. He has silver hair, a strong jaw, slightly tan skin, and a fairly decent body for someone his age. Jenny shrugs. Not too bad, she thinks to herself.

She goes out the side door. Johnny, the valet, is also taking a cigarette break. “Hey,” Johnny says with a nod.

Jenny lights her cigarette. “Hey. How’s it going?”

“Actually I was just about to text you. You hear about that lawyer guy from Chicago?”

Jenny nods while taking a long drag from her cigarette.

“Well, he’s totally packin’ yo. The Mirage called to let us know that he was on his way, and Domenic, he’s like this big car buff you know, told me this guy’s some big shot from Chicago staying in a penthouse suite and that he tips big and drives this ’64 Ferrari. So get this, he pulls up in and I patted the hood and give him this real serious look and say ‘Is this a ’64?’ And he looks all impressed and tips me a hundo,” Johhny says between drags of his cigarette. He and Jenny never talk about where they’re from, but Jenny can tell he’s from L.A. “Jenny, listen to me, I’m telling you this guy is packin’, and he’s a sucker.”

“Johnny, you know I always listen to you,” Jenny replies, and as she puts out her butt she decides that this guy is definitely worth a try.

She goes back into the artificial, red lights and steps up to the craps table next to Mr. Chicago. The dealer, Rick, gives her a nod that she returns. Although Jenny has no official authority here, everyone thinks she is someone important. The silver-haired man gives her a sideways glance. He wins again and gives Jenny a full look, taking in her long legs, sensuous body, and beautiful face. She returns his look with an encouraging smile. He bets again and wins. His total is up to $150,000.

He puts $50,000 down for a pair of twos and looks at Jenny and says, “I’m feeling sort of lucky,” with a gleeful grin.

In Vegas, everyone believes in luck. Jenny makes men feel lucky. They feel lucky she is even standing next to them. She looks lucky. She radiates rich. She smells like dreams come true.

Jenny believes in luck, but she believes she creates her own.

The dice slowly tumble to a stop and show two twos. The man jumps up with his arms in the air. He turns to Jenny and hugs her in his elation. He pulls away and looks slightly embarrassed.

“Congratulations,” says Jenny with her most genuinely excited smile.

“Thank you,” the man says still on his adrenaline high. “I’m done though. I’d like to cash out,” he says to the dealer. Bruce, who is always watching big wins, steps up to the table and collects the man’s chips in a briefcase. “I’m smart enough to know when to quit,” the man says to Jenny.

“Well, you definitely seem to know what you’re doing,” Jenny says in an enticing voice.

“Yes, it would appear so,” he says gesturing to his chips.

“I will go and cash these in for you, sir,” says Bruce. “It will only take a bit. Would you like to go get a drink in the Petrossian, and I’ll deliver your winnings there?”

“That would be great,” says the man and turns to Jenny. “Would you like to join me for a drink?”

“Of course,” she purrs.

Jenny returns to The Petrossian, and they sit at a table. The man introduces himself as Charles and orders a scotch. Jenny smiles to herself.

The trick is that people love to talk about themselves. These men love to talk about their achievements, their boyhoods, and the things they own. Jenny acts excited and enthusiastic about their boastful stories. She pokes and prods their pride until it is full blown. With her “ohs” and “ahs” she fattens their egos. She asks a hundred questions but never asks about wives or children.

Just as their drinks are dwindling, Bruce shows up with Charles’ money. “Here you are, sir,” he says handing Charles an envelope of money and winking at Jenny.

“Well, what do you say,” Charles asks Jenny, “how about you help me spend some of this money on a extravagant dinner at the Michael Mina?”

“I’d love to,” Jenny says with a girlish smile. The two walk to the elevator and take it up to the 18th floor. Someone could spend years inside one casino; it has everything anyone could want.

As they pass the eighth floor which houses The Bank, a hip nightclub, Jenny thinks of her nights when no one big comes in. She spends those nights inside the clubs with heirs, heiresses, celebrities, and other Las Vegas elite staying up until eight in the morning. In the V.I.P rooms there are platters with small mountain ranges of coke, pills of every variety, and ridiculously expensive alcohol that has the same results as the cheap stuff. But tonight isn’t a night for that; it’s a night for working.

The restaurant is booked, and they don’t have reservations. Charles slips the hostess a fifty, but it is unnecessary, because once she sees Jenny she seats them at once. They get a nice, quiet table in the back.

They have a gourmet dinner, that costs $100 a plate, and drink two bottles of wine that cost $350 each. Jenny keeps the subject on Charles and flirts without effort. After he has paid the bill, he asks Jenny to join him for another drink at The Fontana Bar. This is too easy, Jenny thinks.

They sit on the outdoor patio just as the fountains begin. Jenny drinks a gin and tonic and smokes a cigarette. Charles gazes at the fountains and raves about the wonders of Vegas. After the show is finished, he turns back to Jenny and says, “I noticed the great taste you have in jewelry,” as he reaches across the table and caresses Jenny’s tennis bracelet with his soft, strong hands. “You can always judge a woman’s character by the jewelry she wears.”

“Well, thank you. I picked it out as birthday present for myself,” Jenny says.

“A woman as beautiful as you should never have to buy her own jewelry. You know, I’m in town for a couple of days. Maybe we could go shopping tomorrow. What do you think?”

“I think that would be nice,” Jenny replies with a smile. They finish their drinks, and Charles invites her back to the Mirage. Jenny agrees. They exit The Bellagio and wait for the car. Johnny pulls up in the Ferrari and hands Charles the keys, and then Johnny opens the door for Jenny and gives her a knowing smile.

They drive to the Mirage, which is only two blocks away. As they walk in, Charles puts his arm around Jenny’s waist, and they enter into the depths of the casino.

Jenny gets out of bed. The room is completely dark except for the red glow of the clock that reads 4:28 a.m. She pads over to the window and pulls the curtain aside. The street is still pulsating.

This city moves at a pace faster than anywhere. Once a building is over thirty years old, it is torn down and rebuilt bigger, better, and more expensive. The cars cruising the strip, are cars made to go from zero to sixty in eight seconds. The lights are always on, always blinking, never stopping. Days and nights become the same thing, and hours morph into days that morph into weeks, and soon time has warped into years.

For a moment Jenny has to recollect what year it is and how long she has lived here. Six years, echoes through her mind. She shivers and notices the air conditioner billowing the curtain and blowing onto her legs.

She goes to the bathroom and turns on the bright, white light. Her eyes struggle to adjust as she quietly shuts the door. Jenny holds her hands under the tap until it is warm enough to splash her face with. Then she looks at her glossy, wet features in the mirror.

Her face is still youthful, but the darkness under her eyes and the tiny lines forming around them are evidence of her lifestyle. And her eyes behold the haughty gaze of someone who grew up too fast and learned the hardness of life too early. “Is this really me?” she whispers aloud. Her voice sounds strange and foreign in the quiet.

Jenny turns to the full-length mirror and examines her naked body. She looks at her long, slender legs and the jut of her hipbone. She looks at the expanse of her flat belly and stops at her ribs gazing at her scar as her fingers gently caress it. Suddenly Jenny wishes she were eleven again more than she wants anything Versace.

She wishes she could be bare foot in the tall grass, breathing in the humid Kentucky summer. She wishes she could taste the cold, earthy flavor of water directly from the hose as it splashes against her face and trickles from her chin down her body leaving trails in her dusty skin. She wishes she could smell the sweet, musty scent of a horse and feel its massive power beneath her.

When Jenny was eleven, her mother was living with a man in a small Cinninati apartment that was too cramped to house Jenny. So her mother sent her to live with a second cousin in Kentucky. The woman’s name was Elma, and she and her husband lived on a farm.

Jenny spent the summer riding horses, catching frogs, helping weed the garden, and running through the fields. It was the best summer of her life.

Once Jenny was running through the field with bare feet. She was running as fast as her long legs would carry her, and for a moment she thought she was flying. Her feet thudded against the ground, but the soles, harden from a shoeless summer, felt nothing. Suddenly her foot fell into a ditch hidden by tall grass. It caused Jenny to trip and fall onto the opposite bank. As she fell a sharp stick stabbed her ribs and created a two-inch long gash.

She looked at the torn, white skin. She seemed to stare at it for a full minute before the truly red blood came to the surface and seeped onto her blue shirt creating a large purple stain. Jenny held her wound all the way home. By the time she got there her hand was covered in blood. Elma doctored the cut with iodine. It stung worse than anything Jenny had felt, but she didn’t care. It was a small price to pay, to know you were alive.

The pain left, and the scar and her memories faded but always remained. Jenny forever dreamed of a life on the land. But God didn’t grant her a family farm or a cowboy for a husband. He granted her beauty and charm, and she did the best she could.

Jenny still stands in front of the mirror, in the bright, white tile bathroom, and tries to repress this wave of nostalgia. “I need a fucking cigrette,” Jenny whispers aloud again. But the “no smoking” sign warns her against it. Instead she goes back into the room. Darkness engulfs her as she gropes for her purse and finds a pill bottle. She swallows an Ambien and climbs back into the king-size bed.

A hand gently shakes Jenny awake. She opens her eyes and takes a moment to decipher whose face she is looking at.

“Jenny, I have to go to a meeting, but you can stay as long as you like,” says Charles.

Jenny mumbles a sleepy reply.

“How about we meet at the fountains at eight for some dinner and maybe some late night shopping?”

“OK,” Jenny nods sleepily.

“OK, see you there,” says Charles. He kisses Jenny on the forehead and leaves. As soon as he shuts the door, Jenny gets up, dresses, and leaves. She goes back to her apartment and sleeps a few more hours. Then she showers and gets ready. It’s only three o’clock, but Jenny decides to head to the Bellagio and have a few drinks before meeting with Charles.

When she arrives Johnny is at his usual post in front of the building. Today standing next to him is someone Jenny’s never seen before. The guy is dressed in the same red suit and appears to be a rookie. As Jenny says hello to Johnny, he eyes her up and down.

Jenny goes into the casino, says her round of hellos, and ventures to The Petrossian. The bar is unusually quiet and Rick, the head bartender is training someone new.

Rick introduces the new guy as Kevin and pours Jenny a gin and tonic. Then he goes back to training Kevin. Jenny looks around; there’s no one to talk to. Bored, Jenny sucks down three double gin and tonics and contemplates how to get Charles to buy her that Versace dress. As she slurps up the last bit, she realizes it has been much too long since her last cigarette.

She goes out to her usual spot, a place designated for employee smoking. At first she thinks she’s alone, but hears two voices from around the corner.

Jenny recognizes one of the voices as Johnny’s and soon realizes the second is the new valet. By the sound of a liter clicking and muffled coughs, she can tell they’re getting high, a favorite past time of Bellagio employees.

They haven’t noticed Jenny, and suddenly she doesn’t feel like company. She steps beside one of the vending machines. Hidden from sight, she slouches against it and listens to their conversation.

“So what do ya think of the job so far, man?” asks Johhny.

“It’s pretty tight,” says the new guy as he exhales the smoke.

“Yeah, man, you just wait. We got all the hook ups, getta drive fast cars, and look at hot girls all day.”

“There were a lot of hotties comin’ in and outta this place.”

“I know,” says Johnny trying to hold in a hit.

“Who was that sexy, blonde babe who said hi to you earlier?”

Johnny pauses for a moment. “Oh, you mean Jenny. Yeah she’s a real fine piece.”

“No joke. So what’s her deal? She work here or something?”

“Haha. Well sort of, she’s a total hooker, yo.”

“No shit, man,” says the new guy slightly incredulous. “I guess that figures.”

They continue chatting as they head back to work. But Jenny hears none of it. Gravity seems to be tugging her heart and stomach down. Her mind empties completely except for one word: hooker. She stands still and the word beats in her mind with the rhythm of her heart. Hooker. The word reverberates through her now hollow mind. Hooker.

She stands there alone in the concrete enclosure, which smells of hot asphalt, damp garbage, and layers of cigarette smoke. She stands there for a while as her senses slowly come back to her. She looks down at the smoldering butt in her hand and throws it on the ground.

The door back into the casino opens as a small, middle-aged housekeeper comes out for her cigarette break. Jenny recognizes her; she has worked her for many years. The woman smiles at Jenny, and she manages to pull her lips into a practiced smile. Then Jenny slips through the door, back into the casino. She suppresses the urge to throw up, sucks in her stomach, throws back her shoulders, holds her head up, and walks through the casino and exits on the strip.

Jenny holds her composure until she is off the strip. Her stomach contracts, and she retches into a row of bushes next to the sidewalk. She heaves several more times on her hands and knees.

She sits on the sidewalk and tries to spit out the bitter taste of alcohol and stomach acid. Tears filled her mascara and eyeliner cut channels through her concealer, foundation, and powder. She wipes the polluted tears from her face and dripping nose. She looks at her hand and realizes her nose is bleeding from the blood that matches her nail polish.

Suddenly Jenny feels as though she has lived 100 years. She can feel the tar in her lungs from her pack a day habit. Her liver aches from years and years for being marinated in gin. And as she inhales her sinuses prickle with the bruises of drug abuse.

She has the urge to crawl into the bushes, which now contain her vomit, and sleep for a thousand years. But instead she removes her heels and heads home. Even though Jenny has walked in heels for the last ten years, she can’t bare six more blocks.

The block before her apartment, Jenny stops at a 7-Eleven. She goes to the section with dog food and contemplates which bag to buy. Her hand reaches for the cheaper bag, but instead she grabs the more expensive one.

As she puts the dog food on the counter, the cashier eyes her curiously. Jenny’s hair is a mess, her face contains a mixture of smeared makeup and dried blood, and two heels dangle in her hand.

“I’ll have a pack of Camel Filters, too,” she says. “My last pack.”

“Yeah, that’s what they all say,” he says with indifference. Jenny smiles and swallows the sudden urge to giggle.

As she approaches her apartment, the brown dog’s tail slowly thuds the concrete.
“I got you something,” she coos with a pleased smile. “Yes I did.”

She rips open the bag and pours a portion onto the ground. “Sorry I don’t have a bowl,” says Jenny as she pets him. She goes upstairs, takes a shower, and sleeps for a long time.

When she wakes up she goes through all her belongings, which mostly entails clothing. She separates everything into two piles. One of them, significantly smaller than the other, she stuffs into a blue duffel bag. The rest she puts in three black garbage bags. She goes to her closet and retrieves a shoebox from the top shelf. In the box is all of Jenny’s money. She counts it. There is $8,537. She puts $1,000 in an envelope and the remainder in her duffel bag. She takes the envelope and tapes it to her landlord’s door, along with her key.

Jenny hauls all her bags downstairs and stops to pet the dog and pour a little more food out. She leaves him there on the sidewalk with a bag of dog food and goes to a pawn shop a block away.

Inside the dimly lit shop, the man rifles through the bags pulling out pairs of designer heels, purses, belts, jackets, jeans, skirts, and dresses. He shakes his head in disbelief as more and more expensive items emerge from the depths of the black garbage bags. He looks at Jenny as though she were Mary Poppins herself.

“Are these all real?” he asks in a suspicious tone.

“Of course,” Jenny says. But she can tell by the look of awe on his face that he knows they are. The man assesses the articles again with his narrow, brown eyes.

“I’ll give you $2,000 for everything,” he says.

“Ha! You know very well that those boots alone are worth at least…” Jenny begins to argue. But she stops herself and looks at all her belongings scattered across the glass counter and gurgitating out of the bags. All of the things she had collected over the years, all of her rewards, all she had cared about lied in front of her. Bought new, it is all worth close to a million, but Jenny finally sees that it is all merely clothing.

“Fine,” she says. “I’ll take it.”

The man tries to keep a poker face, but can’t hide his smile of elation. He quickly counts the cash and hands it to Jenny before she can change her mind.

Jenny leaves the pawnshop with her small, blue duffel bag slung over her shoulder and walks to the bus depot. An unusual crowd of slightly vagrant people with large packs sits on the benches passing time with blank stares. The air smells of gasoline fumes, disinfectant bathroom cleaner, and people who have been riding on buses for too long.

She steps up to the ticket counter. An older man with kind blue eyes flashes a denture-filled smile. “Good mornin’. What can I do for ya, young lady?”

“Well, I’d like to buy a ticket on the next bus out of here. Where’s it going?”

“Well the next bus leaves in forty-five minutes, to Missoula, Montana.”

“Hmm,” Jenny considers this prospect. “Have you ever been to Montana?”
His grin widens and a deep chuckle rises from his throat. “As a matter of fact, that’s where I’m from.”

“Oh yeah? So what’s it like?”

“I’d say it’s the prettiest state in the union. But very different from here, a whole lotta land and sky, not a lotta people.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“Well, it’s your lucky day. I have one seat left,” he says with a wink.

Jenny takes the ticket in exchange for $60. She sits on one of the black metal benches and waits for the bus to arrive. The last sunlight of the day illuminates the blonde hair that drapes down her neck and shoulders. It reflects in her vibrant eyes and kisses the tip of her unmade-up nose. A ray of it cascades across her legs, revealing her left knee poking through a hole in her worn jeans. Her pink T-shirt hangs loosely around her frame, and her arm rests against her ribs pressing into the jagged pink scar.

The odd assortment of wanders continue to mill around the bus station, shuffling between the benches and bathrooms. The street outside trembles slightly as cars zip past. And as those cars move closer to the strip the tremble turns into a throb, which then becomes the rhythmic thud of a heart beat. But in the fading light the crowds that fill the sidewalks and casinos are too distracted by the sensational sights to hear it.

As darkness blankets Nevada, a grey hound bus leaves for Montana, and a satellite that orbits the earth takes a photo of the bright star that is Sin City.