Someday, Liz thought, she’d have a job where she didn’t go home reeking of fish. In the meantime, she’d settle for a shower.
The garage-style doors of the fish market were already closing, blocking off the open-air market from the public, when a shout slowed her escape. She looked to her left and groaned. She saw a pair of feet and three people gathered around them. The homeless weren’t supposed to come inside the market. It freaked the customers out and management usually called the cops.
But these guys, two men and a woman, didn’t look like cops.
The feet kicked. “Don’t touch me!”
Liz tensed. Keep your head down, she told herself, her mantra whenever there was trouble or a scene. She took another step and the man screamed again. “Nooo!”
Liz froze. She’d heard screams like that before.
“Hey!” she yelled, before she could stop herself. “Take it easy!”
She was immediately sorry. Four sets of familiar eyes turned toward her and her gaze fell to the syringe hovering just above the homeless man’s arm.
Shit.
