Help Unasked

Quinn walked down the streets of the Projects, heading for home. Rundown buildings with cracking plaster or dirty brick squared her in with black gaps that indicated back alleys slicing though the buildings every couple blocks. There were streetlamps but a lot of them didn't work, others flickered, delivery patchily uneven light coverage. Junky cars drove down the streets playing loud booming music with guys hanging out the windows hooting and hollering. Men loitered on doorsteps or in front of liquor and convenience stores. Pedestrians tended to walk with the quick, face down shuffle of those beaten down after working three jobs that day, the wide-legged swagger of thugs, of the striding, busy steps of people who wanted to look like they had places to go and that they could handle any interruptions. Quinn's stride belonged to the latter category. In baggy jeans that sagged off her hips, held in place with a shoelace belt, she covered the ground in long sidewalk-eating strides. The hood of her equally baggy hoody was pulled up to cover her hair and shadow her face, with was turned partially down. There was zero hip swishing to her walk; she walked like a boy so as not to attract any unwanted attention. She kept one hand tucked into her pocket, like she might have something in there, while the other swung easily at her side. One earbud was in her ear, softly playing music, while the other hung over the edge of her collar. It wasn't a good idea to leave any sense unaware in this part of town where muggings, beatings, rape, and murder all ran rampant. Quinn had so far, in her short 19 years, managed to display enough edge to be left alone, but not so much as to be a threat or a challenge. It was a fine line and one she had perfected ages ago. Because in the Projects there were only three kinds of women: hard working exhausted women who were just struggling to pay their bills, whores, and bitches. You didn't want to be part of the latter two groups, unless you could take care of yourself. On the off chance something untoward happened, Quinn had a wicked curved blade hooked onto her back pocket that she was good at drawing and sort of knew how to use, and a small portable close range tazer in the other pocket. Just in case. So far she had only had to use them a couple times and they had done the trick. Reaching the front of the building she lived in, she slipped in the front door, taking the staircase to the left to head up to the upper floors of the run down apartment building. She reached her room and, key already ready in her hand, unlocked the door. Slipping inside quickly she relocked the door behind her immediately. The lock made her feel secure even though it was really a measly form of protection. The doors around here were so flimsy it would take much effort to kick them down. But at least it prevented any but someone actually determined to enter this room at bay. Once home she sighed with relief, like she did every time she made it home, and stripped off the hoody, pulling it over her head and dumped it in the basket by the door. Now in just the baggy jeans, barefoot, with a white tank on she paused. She lifted her head, suddenly wary. Something felt off. Shaking back hair so dark brown it appeared black, she tucked both hands into her back pockets and eased forward, feet soundless on the floor. Ignoring the crying baby she could faintly hear through the walls she strained for any noise, any sign of what had put her back up and made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.