By Kaia Gallagher

It was my first trip to Portland, and I was in a rush, annoyed because I forgot my toothbrush. Leaving my unpacked suitcase, I searched out the hotel concierge who assured me a drugstore was close by.

“When you leave the hotel, turn left, then walk four blocks. Take another left at the corner, continue for two more blocks, then cross the street, and the drug store will be on your left.”

The directions were confusing, but setting off in the dim, late-afternoon shadows, I skirted around the looming office buildings, counting the blocks, hoping I would be able to retrace my steps. She was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, only a few blocks from the hotel: a teenage girl with limp blond hair and a wide-eyed look. Trying to avoid her, I turned to cross the street when she grabbed my arm.

“Please, can you give me $3.59?”

Her voice was pleading, apologizing through her words, even as she gripped me tightly.

“Why would you possibly want $3.59?”

I confronted her, curious to learn why someone who didn’t look like she lived on the street would ask for such an exact amount.

“At McDonald’s, that’s what a plain hamburger and a cup of coffee costs. I don’t need any more than that. It’s just I haven’t eaten all day.”

Her words spilled out, as she looked away, embarrassed at having to explain herself. Shuffling through my wallet, I found a five dollar bill and then asked the obvious next question.

“What are you doing out here alone? Don’t you have a place to stay?”

She thanked me for the money, shaking my hand repeatedly. She had an apartment, but was kicked out because her drop-in roommates had been too loud. Her belongings, she assured me, were stored in a locker at the train station.

“I’m fine, really. Don’t worry about me. I just have to figure out where I want to go next.”

I guessed she was maybe 19, young to have no place to be, but self-reliant. As the streetlights came on, I started to feel nervous at the thought of her wandering through downtown Portland alone.

“Are you sure you’re going to be all right? Isn’t there someplace you can go for the night?”

“It’s really okay. I’m used to this. Listen, there is one more thing you can do for me.”

Thinking she was going to ask for more money, I looked at her and hesitated, worried she wanted more help than I could give.

Her voice got very soft. “I’d really like it if you would give me a hug.”

Not expecting this type of request, I didn’t respond right away. Instead of a panhandler, I began to see her as a young girl searching for a sign someone cared.

Flustered at my hesitation, she added, “I’m clean, you know. I wash every day. I keep my clothes clean. Really, it’s okay. You can hug me.”

Her voice was eager but anxious, self-conscious about this request being so important to her. When I paused, her eyes searched mine, hoping for reassurance.

Leaning forward to embrace her, I saw her tears forming. I hugged her thin frame without wanting to let go, trying to show her she was not alone. After a few minutes, we stood awkwardly in front of each other, and I looked into her eyes.

“I’m worried about you. Are you going to be all right?

Regaining her confidence, she stepped back and smiled. “I lived with a family for three years, taking care of their son who died from AIDS. I could have stayed, but it was time to move on. Don’t worry. I’ll find something else.”

We stood face-to-face, eye-to-eye. I didn’t ask her name, but I recognized her as someone I now understood and cared about. She patted me on the arm.

“Look, don’t worry, okay? I’m really going to be all right.”

She turned and walked into McDonald’s as I stood there, blinking at the Golden Arches. Wrapped in my own concern, I wondered if there was something more than $5 and a hug I should have given her.

She was gone the next day when I looked, but I see her in every face I encounter on the streets.

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