I noticed her bright orange hair out of the corner of my eye. Her strong jaw, her septum piercing... she reminded me so much of Becca that my pulse quickened. I felt as though I'd seen a ghost.

She could have been an alternative model, a Suicide Girl. She could have been a Myspace girl. Instead, she was here, in Harvard Square, homeless and alone. She had scrawled, in red ink, on a cardboard sign: "Homeless. Need $$ for bus ticket."

I walked over to her, crouched down to her level and asked, "Hey... are you okay?" She avoided eye contact, stared right past me.

"I'm okay, could be better, I guess. Got a few flea bites," she casually pointed to her forearm, which was covered in small, bright red lesions that resembled acne.

I persisted, "Your sign says you need a bus ticket. So what happened, exactly? Are you trying to get home?"

She shrugged defiantly, a gesture of teenage stoicism. Her face showed no emotion, expressed neither friendliness nor irritation.

"Are you hungry at all? Do you want me to get you some food, like a sandwich?"

"Not too hungry. I got this." She pulled out a packet of Chicken-flavored ramen from her small backpack. "And you can do whatever you want, man. It's up to you." She shrugged again. I felt a pang of irritation at her unyielding pride, her refusal to ask for help directly. Again, she reminded me of the way Becca was, two years before she had even started... attempting. So many times I had tried to reach out to Becca, to ask her questions, but she had already blocked herself off, stone-cold strong, too strong.

"So do you have any food allergies?" I asked.

She now seemed, not exactly more cheerful, but slightly less robotic; her words and gestures appeared more energized. "I hate vegetables," she said matter of factly, "And I can't eat anything with cheese... it gives me the runny shits."

When I brought her sandwich 20 minutes later, she smiled and said, "Cool, thanks, man."

"Sure. Before I go, I have some advice for you." Suddenly, she looked defiant again, as though ready to shield herself from hurled insults, insensitivity, or adult presumptuousness. Her mouth was a firm line. "My sister, her name was Becca, ran away from home a few times. Well, she made this sign, it said, 'Ninjas killed my parents. Need money for Kung-Fu lessons.' And people thought it was really funny and sometimes gave her money."

"Thanks, man, I'll have to try that." She turned her sign over, pulled out a sharpie, and started scribbling.

Then I stood up and walked home, leaving my sister behind.