Christy Marks: Taxi
“I just… I don’t want to be a person who disappears.”
And somewhere in the backseat, on the floor mat where the young woman had been sitting, a single silver earring glinted in the passing streetlights—a small, forgotten thing. Christy would find it the next morning, and she’d put it in the glove compartment with all the others: a tiny museum of people who had passed through her cab, each one a story she would carry, just in case they ever came back looking for what they’d left behind. christy marks taxi
“Where to?” Christy asked.
Christy nodded slowly. She’d heard that before. From runaways. From women leaving bad situations. From people who’d decided to start over with nothing but a suitcase and a bus ticket. “I just… I don’t want to be a person who disappears
One rainy Tuesday evening, Christy picked up a fare from the Amtrak station. A young woman, maybe twenty-five, dragging a suitcase with a broken wheel and wearing a coat too thin for November. She looked like she’d been crying, but not recently—more like the crying had settled into her bones. Christy nodded slowly
