Anonymity

“Janna McMahan is a writer who knows how to get out of the way and let the story rip.”

--Lee Smith, New York Times
bestselling author of
On Agate Hill

“Janna McMahan is a natural voice who gracefully walks that tightrope of being both literary and commercial.”

--Silas House, New York Times
bestselling author of
Clay's Quilt

“The details are so real they make you shiver.”

--Robert Morgan,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Gap Creek

“Beautifully written, both funny and intensely sad, this glorious novel sparks such an escalating longing for family and the place in your heart you really call home that it is almost impossible to put down.”

--
Charleston Magazine

“Fans of Jodi Picoult's work will appreciate this novel's sparse prose, unexpected plot turns and moral complexities.”

--
The Louisville Courier-Journal

“A vividly drawn love letter to coastal South Carolina. McMahan's descriptions of the Lowcountry and its unique climate and customs jump off the page.”

--Publisher's Weekly

“The story is gripping and the characters all too real.”

--Booklist

“A beautifully crafted, mesmerizing read I highly recommend.”

--Cassandra King, author of
Queen of Broken Hearts

“A gripping American family portrait.”

--Lisa Alther, author of
Washed in the Blood

“The Ocean Inside speaks to coastal Carolinians with a strong, familiar voice. Readers would be hard-pressed to discern that Janna McMahan is not a native.”

--The Sun News
, (Myrtle Beach, SC)

For Madison
,

you always have a home.

Anonymity by
Janna McMahan

© Copyright 2012 by Janna McMahan

ISBN 9781938467233

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other – except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue, and opinions expressed are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

5 Penn Plaza, 23rd floor
c/o Morgan James Publishing
New York, NY 10001
212-574-7939
www.koehlerbooks.com

Publisher
John Köehler

Executive Editor
Joe Coccaro

Research for this novel took me out of my comfort zone more than any of my previous stories. I am indebted to numerous people who gave generously of their time and expertise to help shape
Anonymity.

I owe sincere gratitude to Steve Bewsey, the Director of Housing and Homeless Services for LifeWorks in Austin, Texas. My fictional shelter organization is loosely based on the everyday functions of LifeWorks. Steve told me stories, answered questions, shared academic studies, took me to spots where homeless youth hang and eventually read my manuscript and gave suggestions. Without his contributions this book would not have been possible.

I must also thank Jonathan Artz, director of the Columbia Family Shelter in South Carolina for letting me spend time with him. He provided me with a new perspective of the realities facing families without permanent homes.

My appreciation to Marc Klaas of the Klaas Kids Foundation for allowing me to use their Print-A-Thon project.

Thank you to Eric Michalovic and Jeremy Lewis of Devine Street Tattoo. I learned so much about the culture, history and art of tattooing from these guys. While they made good fun of me for being unwilling to get inked, Jeremy was game to give me a water tattoo so I could see what it felt like. Owwww!

A special shout out to Reece Zylstra, the real Road Dogg, for sharing his amazing stories of life as a homeless youth. I couldn't make up stuff that interesting.

Gracias to all the guys at San Jose's Restaurant for sharing their passion about Mexico's soccer leagues.

Thank you to Dan Cook and the writers at
Free Times
for allowing me to sit in on one of their editorial meetings, to Stephen Hooker, chief photojournalist at WIS-TV for his production lingo lessons and to fellow writer Ron Aiken for helping flesh out how an investigative reporter thinks.

Thank you to many friends and family who contributed to the success of this book through their assistance, inspiration and love. These folks include Dr. Laura Basile, Monica Francis, Jill Pickett Todd, Kelly Morse Jackson, Tom Bond, Dr. Joy Pierce, Edith McMahan, Shelby Miller Jones, Robin Reibold, Michele Burnette, Kristina Mandell, Trace Ballou, Lucy Hunt, Carolyn Mitchell, Kate Moran Spurling, Doreen Sullivan, Amy Barnes, Maria Vick, Deirdre Mardon, Christian Myers, Tamara and Will Cooper and the good folks at the Richland County Public Library.

I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to my brother and sister-in-law for all the good times they've shown me in Austin. Robb and Lisa McMahan, y'all are the best.

My most heartfelt gratitude to my husband, Mark Cotterill, and our daughter, Madison. They are always supportive, understanding, and at times, sympathetic. Thank you both. You are my dream team.

Many thanks to the people of Austin. No matter whom I approached, from store clerks to UT professors, everyone was informed and eager to help. Sgt. Moss of the Austin Police was very informative about the relationship between the police force and the homeless population. Kirk Holland, manager of Barton Springs, enlightened me about the area's natural resources and park amenities. Emily Crawford, of Urban Space Realtors, guided me through the different personalities of the neighborhoods ringing Austin.

I hope my Austin readers will enjoy seeing their city through the eyes of my characters and allow me a little creative leeway when it comes to creating fictional people, places and events set in their lovely, quirky town.

This book is dedicated to the memory of Leslie Cochran who died in early 2012. He was one of Austin's most colorful personalities and his flamboyance will be greatly missed.

Finally, thank you to David Hancock of Morgan James Publishing and John Köehler of Köehler Books for seeing value in this tale. Your enthusiasm and positivity made me feel right at home. Also, my gratitude to my editor, Joe Coccaro, whose careful attention to details helped polish my story and give it light. And to my publicist, Bethany Marshall and the rest of the Morgan James/Köehler Books family, thank you for all you do.

Janna McMahan

“Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.
”

KRIS KRISTOFFERSON

PASSENGERS BEGAN collecting their bags from overhead storage long before the dusty bus lurched to a stop in the terminal. Lorelei pressed her forehead against the window and peered out through the ghostly fingerprints of previous riders. People bumped into each other and apologized as they shuffled around. She followed their reflections in the smudged glass as they inched toward the exit.

Mothers caressed the damp curls of their heavy-eyed children. They planted kisses on smooth cheeks to rouse their babies. Longing drew sharp on Lorelei's heart, but she pushed it down. Emotions were the enemy.

The bus driver eyed her in his rearview, the young straggler with no one waiting for her, nowhere in particular to go. She expected him to be impatient, but he seemed content to merely watch her make her way toward the front.

“Good luck, honey,” the driver said when she finally stepped off. “Girl like you, you got to be careful out there.” The accordion doors hissed closed and she was left in a gas-flavored fog as the bus pulled away.

She could use a little luck. And food. She could definitely use some food.

Lorelei tried to ignore hunger, to force her body to forget the purpose of that ache. The times she was able to endure the black gnaw in her gut, she felt strong and in control.

This wasn't one of those times.

She had eaten her last Slim Jim in the Phoenix Greyhound terminal while she waited for some guy to pay her fare through to Austin. She had picked him because he seemed gentle, like he would help her when she told him about searching for her brother. She could read people now, which ones were easy targets, which ones to avoid.

For more than a year, she had been walking and hitching, cramming into rattletrap cars and vans with other worn-out travelers. She left home for Portland, then worked her way down the coast to L.A. and across the rocky flatlands of the Southwest. If she didn't have luck in Austin she'd move on to New Orleans, maybe Miami before winter. Being homeless in winter sucked.

Outside the station she spotted kindred spirits, a group with tattoos and lived-in clothes, packs and bedrolls. One had a thin dog on a frayed rope. She waited, hoping they would be cool, but one of the girls gave her a warning look, so she moved on.

Austin's heat blanketed her. The sun was low in the sky but still strong enough to force her into the shadows of buildings and trees. The sidewalk radiated heat. A digital bank sign read 107 degrees. She was parched. Her mouth, even her eyes were dehydrated. Texas was the sort of dry hot that smothered a person's spirit.

The Salvation Army was close to the terminal. She waited a block away, watching. Dozens of men were hanging around outside smoking. Some stood on the corner peering up and down the busy street as if waiting for something important to happen. But she knew they were just drunks and mentals, the usual down-on-their-luck scary losers.

The dazzling glass towers of downtown promised better opportunity, so she moved on. In a few blocks she was on the famous Sixth Street. Pubs, coffee bars and Mexican restaurants lined the sidewalks. Pulsing neon marked the clubs—guitars, tilted martini glasses, funky retro signs. Music pounded out of open doors. Light poles were plastered with hand flyers for bands. The road was blocked and happy-hour humanity flowed down the sidewalks and pooled in the wide streets, laughing, staggering along.

She stopped to admire a historic hotel with arches and a large columned balcony. It reminded her of a castle or a wedding cake. A valet jogged out to meet beautiful people emerging from a sleek black sedan.

Musicians strummed guitars and sang in front of a music store, an open instrument case at their feet littered with a few dollar bills. The tangy air outside a barbecue joint made her stomach throb. She searched the crowd for someone to help her, a mark.

Amidst the movement stood an eddy of blonde girls in short dresses and slouchy boots. Their enormous earrings brushed their shoulders. One held out her phone and her giddy friends leaned into the picture. They froze in a parody of their drunken happiness, colorful birds chirping away.

“Can you please help me?” she asked.

Four sets of coal-rimmed eyes turned her way. She saw the moment their fuzzy minds focused. Their eyes flashed up and down her dirty cargo pants, her scarred Doc Martens, her tats. She could hear their thoughts—street rat, gutter punk, trash.

Would they freak or would they help? You could never tell with college girls.

One clutched her purse tighter.

“Is there a church around here that serves food?” Lorelei asked. “Or maybe a shelter, you know, for young people?”

“Oh,” one said. She snapped her fingers trying to recall. “I know that place. It's by the University Tower. What's it called?”

“It's some plant name, right?” the girl with the phone said.

“Yeah. Like Tumbleweed or something. Look it up.”

The girl tapped her phone with glistening nails. “Here it is. Tumbleweed Young Adult Center. It's not far.” She held the screen forward. “It's like, um, a fifteen minute walk or something. It's right by the university, along The Drag.”

It seemed wrong to press for money after they had helped, so she thanked them and walked on.

Lorelei didn't bother to panhandle on the way toward campus. She was focused only on food and something to drink. As she walked, the University of Texas grew around her, pale stone buildings and walks, an important place for important people. The grounds were trimmed and impressive, although the whole city seemed to need a good watering.

To her left, pockmarked sidewalks fronted student bookstores, taco stands, churches and food co-ops. In a barren space between two buildings, a cluster of kids were hunched over paper plates. She had arrived.

The drop-in entrance was down concrete steps tucked into a corner of a church basement. She'd done this enough to know that on the other side of that weathered steel door would be a ratty couch, mismatched chairs scattered around and inspirational posters of kittens and puppies and sunsets.

And food. There would be no mouth-watering barbecue. Only foil containers of salad and pasta. Brittle cookies. Fake lemonade.

She hesitated. Going in meant revealing herself. Usually she could hang in a new place for weeks before she had to find the shelter, but once her presence was known, things had a way of changing fast. Counselors would want to talk. She never gave them her real name, never told them where she was from. Still, information would start to spread. A white girl under eighteen, alone on the streets, worried certain people. Sometimes the cops got involved, or worse, sometimes parents got found.

There were clear advantages to keeping a low profile, but the double blades of thirst and hunger had long ago carved caution from her empty hull.