We had to strain to hear her.

“Huh?” Yaya scrunched her face up at the woman. We’d had a turbulent arrest and the last thing we wanted to hear was someone preaching to us.

“Do you ladies want to come to Sanctuary?”

“Baby, we don’t have time for Jesus right now. Please get out my face.” Yaya fanned her away. But she stayed. And she explained that Sanctuary wasn’t a church. It was a rescue. A rehabilitation facility for the unhoused, addicts, hoes, petty criminals, etc, etc, you get the picture. They partnered with the government and kept people from litigation if they completed the program.

Neither I, nor Yaya really fuck with government funded programs. That’s how we ended up homeless in the first place. So we didn’t answer right away. We made her go get us ramen from our favorite spot and slurped on noodles while we thought about it.

“I’m too fine to have a record.” Yaya spoke my thoughts aloud and we got in the back of Left Eye’s black truck. We sipped fresh green juice through the smog of the city into the cool crispness of the mountains. Green leaves were still on the trees, but it felt like the end of November, which was strange. Left Eye gave us the rundown as the car sped up the middle of two terra-cotta walls. The walls were huge, they stood taller than some trees, and they went on for miles.