The Crescent City, with its long and tangled history, its glorious architecture and subtropical allure, along with its inarguably dark past and requisite restless spirits, is a forgiving place. A city with accepting arms for society's lost and hungry souls, and a haven for people like me who'd stumbled and fallen yet managed to pull themselves back up. People who were brave enough to try again in a place known for its extremes, or simply too hardheaded to admit defeat. I listened to the clanging and jangling of the St. Charles streetcar I'd just exited as it waddled its way down the tracks toward the river bend. It had become the soundtrack of my life in a new city, much as the church bells chiming their holy chorus in my hometown of Charleston once were. Slowly walking down Broadway, I enjoyed the afternoon air of an early October Saturday. The oppressive humidity of summer had lifted, giving us a reprieve, and although the temperature was nowhere near what anybody up north would call cold, it was still cool enough that I wore a sweater over my usual T-shirt. Even my fingers felt chilled as they gripped the straps of my backpack. I considered slipping on the gloves that my stepmother, Melanie, had sent me--along with typed instructions on how to care for them. I was due a visit from my family--my parents and my twelve-year-old half siblings, Sarah and JJ--the following week, and I didn't want to register Melanie's disappointment at seeing my dirty gloves. Exactly the reason why I wasn't wearing them. Because absolutely nobody in real life had the patience to clean their gloves to Melanie's specifications. Unless they were Melanie.