Taxi Updated | Christy Marks

She watched the woman walk to the shelter’s door, watched a counselor open it and guide her inside. Then Christy Marks put Mabel back in gear and pulled away into the rain, the city opening up before her like a long, dark road full of passengers who just needed someone to see them, even for a few miles.

“Good,” Christy said. “Then you’re not disappearing today.” christy marks taxi

She was sixty-two, with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a tight bun and reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck. Her taxi, a battered but reliable Crown Victoria she’d named “Mabel,” smelled of coffee, old leather, and the pine tree air freshener she replaced religiously every first of the month. The medallion on her door read “C. Marks,” and beneath it, in smaller letters: “No music, but good conversation.” She watched the woman walk to the shelter’s

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. “Then you’re not disappearing today

Christy glanced in the rearview mirror. “Sometimes. Why?”