Ava pressed her face up close to the single-hung window, so that her breath fogged up the pane like delicate ice, and peered out at the streets of Queens. The crisp air filled her nostrils with the salty scent of cured meat, the exhaust fume smell of busy traffic, the stink of rotting garbage from the alley, and the earthy fragrance of leaves and rainwater. Through the rising steam she could see Mrs. Ricci in one of the apartment windows across from her, who like all the other gray-haired women of neighborhood, always made her fragrant tomato sauce on Sunday when the whole block smelled of garlic. Just to the lower left was Mr. Singh the news reporter. Her eyes continued down the old red bricks to the zigzagging black stairs. Further down was Mr. Berkovich’s deli place, where Ava sometimes went for supper when Momma was working late. Around the corner and down the sidewalk two blocks was her elementary school; it was cold all year, and she always sat alone at recess, but the teacher was nice.

New York had an abrupt and unapologetic way of pressing in too close and overwhelming all the senses. The clamour of city life was never ending, sometimes soothing and at other times simply noisy. By now Ava was used to the constant sound of flowing traffic, an occasional honk, and the spray of rainwater as cabs whizzed by. If she listened closely, Ava could even hear the distant melody of a street jazz musician. She closed her eyes and envisioned the saxophone’s melancholy song… a string of blue pearls, then a burst of orange.  Notes jumped around like a basketball, then stretched out like chewing gum.

Her daydreaming was abruptly interrupted as someone jarred the apartment’s metal door handle. She heard the creak of the door’s rusting hinges, immediately followed by a loud thud that rattled the apartment. A gruff voice cursed, leaking the heavy stench of alcohol throughout the room. It wasn’t long before the man’s bass tones were joined by that of a quavering, indignant soprano. The noise crescendoed quickly, words flying like stones from under the tires of one of the city buses.

Ava pulled on the sleeves of her slightly oversized sweater, burrowed deeper into her chair, and out of habit bit her chapped lips. Tears sprung in her eyes as she gazed out at the cityscape; lights and skyscraper windows blurring together until it resembled her classmate’s second-grade art project.

A small tabby face suddenly appeared from around the pot of a shriveled house plant, plodded softly up to Ava’s worn sneakers, observed her face with big eyes. It leapt beside her, then slowly crawled into her lap. The girl smiled, whispered “I’m glad Momma let me keep you, Patches.” The kitten mewed in response, headbutting her affectionately. She still had a ragged ear from the nights she’d spent in the alleys, before Ava found her.

From the other room came the piercing sound of broken glass, then a pause. It was quiet, but not a nice quiet; it felt like being choked by smog, tasted like fear. Ava held her cat close to her chest and tiptoed just into the hall. Her father stood red-faced; a broken beer bottle cluttered the floor. Her mother stood firmly in front of him, and said with short intensity “You need to go.”

Ava’s father started to say something, stopped, stomped away to get his things and leave, probably for good this time.

Ava crept back to her chair. She couldn’t watch any more. She stared at the ceiling, wishing on each familiar crack. She imagined they were bus lines; the longest one in the middle was where she could catch the Greyhound; she would ride until she could smell the sweet grass of her grandma’s farm and dance with lightning bugs in wide open fields, just like her Momma had told her about once. Maybe then she’d really feel at home.