By the time I reached my destination—the large, padlocked gates of the cemetery—night had fallen. The gates of the cemetery sat on a busy main road. Streetlamps lit the way, as did the glare of headlights as cars frequently passed.

I waited until there were no cars, then I stepped up onto the ledge of the brick pillar the gates were bolted into, grabbed hold of the iron bars, and hauled myself up and over, taking care to not let the spear-pointed tips of the bars bite into me.

Landing on the other side, the impact vibrated up my legs but they were strong from walking everywhere. Taking out my mini flashlight, I lit up the path in front of me and began to make my way through the cemetery.

Weirdly, the place didn’t freak me out at night. It had become my sanctuary where I was safe from the outside world. It was a quiet place to rest my head and I fancied my silent neighbors were somehow protecting me.

It was a large cemetery and I walked for quite a bit toward my spot. The council had been out to mow today—I could smell the freshly cut grass along with the usual familiar smell of damp earth and mingled floral scents from the flowers left by people visiting their relatives. The smell grew fainter as I moved toward the small copse of trees way up in the back that I liked to set my tent by. The stones close to the trees were so old, the engravings had faded until some were near impossible to read.

Once I had my tent up, my sleeping bag out, a pillow, the throw blanket I’d got on sale and used for extra warmth, I got in, got comfy, and pulled out one of the two books I carried with me.

Poison Study by Maria V. Snyder. I’d read it a million times, but it had become a comfort read. It and Graceling by Kristin Cashore. I was a fantasy fan. And I loved reading about wicked-strong heroines who kicked ass despite the odds.

As I read, I forgot about where I was, or that it was cold. I forgot about the outside world entirely for a while. I knew Ham, Mandy, and a lot of the other homeless folks in the city kept in touch with the outside world with their phones. I didn’t know how they got phones. If they stole them or stole money to buy them. Or if they saved up all the money strangers gave them to buy a cheap phone so they could connect with each other and the world. But they did it. They charged them at charging points in coffee shops and used free Wi-Fi there to go on the internet. Some of them even had Facebook pages. No home. But they had a Facebook page.

I, however, didn’t want anything to do with the outside world. The outside world was a distant memory.

Instead I read about Yelena learning about poisons as she studied to be a food taster. I read about her survival and her strength. And that night I closed my eyes and fell asleep in the cemetery that had become my home, knowing I had what it took to survive this life I’d chosen.

* * *

THE AIR HELD THE COPPERY scent of rain. Diesel fumes, coffee, and rain. However, I wouldn’t let the thought of impending rain worry me as I stood on Buchanan Street the following Saturday. I was too busy trying not to let the little shit who had set up close beside me with his PA system bother me.

He was trying to bother me, making that clear when he’d thrown a smug, arrogant smirk my way as he halted closer to my spot than was polite to set up. There was a code among buskers, and he was breaking its most important rule; he was deliberately attempting to drown me out. And doing a great job of it. Anyone who took the time to stop was stopping to listen to him mimic Shawn Mendes.

Yet, I continued. I’d become a master at pretending young male musicians weren’t getting under my skin. I mean, I’d been in a band with three of them and we traveled on a tour bus together, for God’s sake. This kid had no idea how good I’d gotten at pretending assholes like him didn’t exist.

And when to take my opportunity for payback.

It happened as soon he lowered his voice to sing a Coldplay ballad.

I belted out “Chandelier” by Sia. A notoriously difficult song to sing and one that tended to impress people when you could. People drew to a stop, crowding around me as my voice rose above the kid’s PA system.

Then the camera phones came out, making me lower my head, shielding my face with my fedora. One of these days, those goddamned camera phones were going to get me in trouble. How long before someone on the internet went, “Hey, she sounds exactly like Skylar Finch. Wait . . . that is Skylar Finch!”

I dreaded it, realizing I wouldn’t even know if it happened because I refused to go online. It was my worst fear to be playing on the streets of Glasgow one day only to look up and find one of my guys there, glaring at me accusingly.

I shook off the worries and kept singing.

As the applause died down, someone in the crowd called out, “Gonnae sing ‘Titanium’?”

Between the constant rainfall during the week and the dropping temperatures in the tent at night, I’d had to spend most of my money on a raincoat and a couple of fleece-lined hoodies to wear in bed. What little it left me with I’d spent on a shower and the laundromat. I needed the money, so I sang “Titanium,” particularly enjoying the moment when the kid with the PA system started to belt out a rock track and was told to shut up by one of the guys standing in my crowd.

My amusement died a sudden death, however, when the sky abruptly opened up—fast, hard, fat raindrops drenching people in seconds and causing them to yelp and duck for cover. They left me, dripping cold and wet, with a guitar case full of small change that wasn’t even enough to buy a coffee. There was only enough there to buy fries from McDonalds.

I took a deep breath, bracing myself to go to bed hungry, trying not to let the panic set in that my life here was taking a turn for the worse because of the weather. Deep down, I knew it was only going to get more difficult, but I’d have to find a way to survive it.

Part of me wanted to go over to the kid who was hurriedly packing up his PA system with the help of some friends and kick him in the nuts for ruining most of my day. He was dressed in good clothes, wearing expensive sneakers, and he looked well fed and taken care of. He didn’t need the money. He just wanted the attention. I felt like screaming over to him, “We’ve already got one Shawn Mendes. We don’t need another, sweetheart!” But that was petty­­ and I didn’t have the energy.

Forlorn and truly worried for the first time since I’d gotten to Scotland, my fingers trembled as I packed my guitar away. Not only would I go to sleep hungry tonight, I would go to sleep soaked to the skin. The rain had stopped almost as abruptly as it had started, but the damage was done to my clothes and cash flow.

I sucked in a shaky breath, my stomach twisting with nervous butterflies.

Standing up from my haunches, about to turn for my backpack, I almost bumped into a guy no more than an inch taller than me. He stepped into me, holding an umbrella over both our heads, and I shuddered in revulsion as his gaze dragged down my body in a way that couldn’t be misconstrued. Close to his mid-fifties, I’d seen the man before. He was dressed in a nice shirt that was dragged down over his jeans by his large, drooping gut. His broad shoulders were stuffed into a leather jacket that strained with his movements. But it was his face that was hard to forget. He had a distinct bulbous nose and pockmarked cheeks.

I remembered him because he had bothered Mandy one day when I’d stopped to talk to her. Ham had shown up and scared him off.

Obviously, word had gotten around that I was homeless.

I straightened, taking a step out from under his umbrella, my already jangled nerves blasted to hell by my sudden fury.

His leering eyes moved up to my face and at the sight of my glare, he gave me a placating smile. “Let me buy ye a hot meal, love.”

“No thanks.”

“I think we both know ye need it.” He gestured to the now-closed guitar case in my hand.

“Not that badly. Piss off.”

Eyes hardening, he took a step toward me. “Now that’s not nice, when I’m trying to be friendly. Ye need a friend if ye’re going to survive on the streets of Glasgow, love.”

“Sweetheart, even if you weren’t some slimy little prick with a beer gut, I still wouldn’t let you touch me, so if I were you, I’d do as I say and piss off. Oh, and a heads-up,” I sneered at him as I lied, “if I ever see you around, bothering me or any of the girls, I know some very scary guys that will be happy to ‘deal’ with you. Got me?”