Every night the Jurossi's would share an after-dinner digestif in their parlor. They lived in a small two-bedroom apartment situated over a little store that was stocked with fresh fruits, vegetables, and the finest homemade olive oil in all of the Italian Quarter. The shop had been locked up for the night and it was time for its owner, Vito Jurrosi, to finally put his feet up. He was dying.

Apparently, he'd been dying for the last twelve years. At least that's what he told his wife and two daughters.

"I'm dying, Margherita," he would remind his youngest daughter each night. "Get me just one last cigarette. Just one more."

His wife, Carmela, and oldest daughter, Caterina, would tsk and fret and grumble in displeasure of his vice, but little Margherita would jump to her feet to fulfill the wishes of a dying man. It was their nightly ritual, father and daughter. With a grin on her face, she'd lift the flap to the cigarette case and carefully choose one. She liked the way the tightly rolled paper felt under the rough calloses on her fingertips. The matches were beside the carton.

Margherita Jurossi enjoyed sitting on the floor beside her father while he smoked. The smell was a comfort to her. She enjoyed the sharp crush of the lighted match too. It felt safe, sitting there beside her father while her mother and sister mended blankets on the other side of the room, a world away.

When his cigarette burned down to its last puff, Vito held it down to his youngest. He wanted her to enjoy the pleasures of the warm smoke.

"Ah!" Carmela exclaimed at the sight. "If you touch it, Greta, I'll kill you!"

"What's the matter, my love?" Vito asked his wife and pulled the tab just out of reach from his daughter's eager fingers. "It's one small thing. I'm a dying man!"

Carmela frowned. "I'll send you up to God myself if you give our children that filth!"

With a helpless shrug and playful wink directed towards Greta, Vito stubbed the cigarette into the ashtray and leaned forward to kiss her goodnight. He raised his hand up and drew three crosses over her forehead and three crosses over her chest.

"Sleep well, Margherita."

But Margherita Jurossi had no intention of sleeping. She slid under the covers fully clothed, comforter pulled up to her chin, and listened patiently for her parents to go to bed in the next room. Her sister eyed her suspiciously.

"You're not sneaking out again, are you?"

She scowled. "Please talk louder so the rest of England can hear."

"Greta!"

"I'll just be by the Cut like I always am, Kitty. You're welcome to come if you want."

Kitty's frown was a carbon copy of their mother's. "I don't want to. I nearly broke my neck climbing down with you last time."

"Suit yourself," the youngest Jurossi said with finality.

It wouldn't take long for their father's snoring to fill the whole house. While they waited, Kitty tried anything she could to convince her little sister not to go. There was no stopping Greta when her mind was made up. She seemed to think the whole world was beautiful though they lived in a violent city with crippling poverty. That didn't phase Greta, though. She wanted to be a beacon of light that flourished on its own through the darkness and through the storm. Greta was adamant to do things her way.

By the time Greta inched the window open wide enough to climb through, Vito's storing was vibrating the wall between the bedrooms. Kitty always said it sounded as though a trumpet caught tuberculosis. Greta would also chase after her laughter every time her sister made the comparison. She didn't know she'd die of tuberculosis at 19.

Now Kitty clutched her bedsheets in anxiety and watched Greta tiptoe through their room. Every time their father's snores would subside, they'd both grow still and listen into the silence waiting for him to resume. Before Greta could stoop over and pluck her shoes which were nearly placed by the bedroom door, she slipped out into the parlor and stuffed a single cigarette and the matchbox into her pocket. Returning to the room with her little secret she lacked her shoes quickly and stood at the window, ready to hoist herself through.

"When will you be back?" Kitty whispered into the darkness, shivering as a slap of cold wind rushed in through the opened window.

Greta threw one leg out into the night, then the next, twisted her body downward and wiggled out from the frame, fingers holding fast to the sill so she wouldn't lose balance and tumble down to the streets below. "Soon," was her unconcerned response, flashing Kitty a toothy departing grin.

Sneaking out had become such a regular experience that Greta did not hesitate to press herself against the brick wall and slide down ten feet to the wooden awning over the family storefront. Carefully she dangled from the awning and dropped another ten feet to the sidewalk. The real trouble was getting back up, but Greta wouldn't worry about that. Kitty would stay awake until she got back. Just like she always did. Looking up, she could spot the dark features of her big sister's head poke through the open window. Greta happily waved up before bundling herself up against the cool wind and began stalking down the streets, from shadow to shadow, towards the Cut.

Greta Jurossi didn't lie to her sister tonight like she usually did. She was going to the Cut. Some nights she'd wander aimlessly through the streets, drifting to Nechells to Small Heath to Gosta Green, or she'd find a quiet building with a nice roof to watch the clouds move by. The nighttime was equally relaxing as it was terrifying. Greta quite enjoyed that gamble. Nothing bad had happened yet and she had grown quite confident that nothing ever would.

When she took the stone steps leading down to the Cut, Greta, feet firmly connected with the cobblestone, stared down into the churning waters. Droplets hung like a humid cloud in the air. It smelled foul like the rest of the city, but she quite enjoyed it. In fact, she was so transfixed by the rolling and galloping of the water that she didn't notice the red eye of a cigarette only a few feet away from her. The hidden smoker, only a shadow in the darkness of the Cut, sat still and watched her sit down, legs dangling down.

Her hand snaked into the pocket of her coat and pulled out the single cigarette and book of matches.

Up until now she had only handled cigarettes theoretically. Pursing the paper between her lips was the natural first move. She had seen her father doing it every single night for as long as she could remember. The paper stuck to her lips in an unpleasant way. Greta pinched it from her mouth and smacked her lips curiously, staring down at the moistened paper. She held it at the corner of her mouth again and suavely struck the match against the comb. The pungent smell of sulfur-dioxide immediately stung the hairs in her nose. The end of the cigarette glowed yellow.

Quite pleased with herself, Greta confidently made her first pull. The harshness of the tobacco hit her throat harder than she expected. She nearly doubled over herself, hand clamped to her mouth, and coughed for several minutes. Bits of bitter tobacco clung to the ridges of her mouth and she desperately wiped it over, hanging her tongue to clear the taste.

She stared down at it again - this time with disgust and a bit of distrust. How did her father enjoy smoking these each night?

The cigarette burned away between her fingers as she waited for anything to happen. A wave of relief? Some kind of calm and comfort? Surely, the smoke must have been a vehicle for something. But no stroke of genius or feelings of weightlessness followed. Greta took another pull. The hot smoke burned her throat and puffed out in white clouds between her lips as she coughed again. Her mind went a little hazy, almost heavy as the smoke found its way to her brain.

"You're not supposed to breathe in so deep," a voice said from the darkness.

Startled, Greta sprung up to her feet, brown eyes swiveling this way and that to find the body attached to the voice. If she had risen any faster she'd surely have lost balance and tumbled into the water.

From the darkness not far from her, she saw a shadow lift itself up and step forward.

"Don't," she snapped and drew an arm behind her body. "I have a knife."

The figure stood still, almost in study, and the head cocked to one side as though to call her bluff. Greta trembled where she stood, not daring to take her eyes off him for even a moment lest he attack.

The red eye between the stranger's lips danced as he chuckled. "I don't think you do."

Her mouth hung open to insist otherwise but he took a step closer and Greta took an uncertain step back. Whatever courage she wore on her face was quickly fading. The cigarette butt burnt the insides of her finger and, with a wince, was promptly discarded down to the cobblestones. She squinted. From the light of the moon, which only barely peeked out from the dusty smog blanketed over the city, Greta caught the bright reflection off the stranger's eyes. Stepping out from the darkness now, he looked less like a menacing figure and more like a young boy her age, wearing ratty clothes and a shy smile.

"Watch out for that edge," he pointed down at her feet as she took another step dangerously close to the canal. He flashed her another smile but didn't receive one back.

"Like I said, you're not supposed to breathe in so deep or you'll get dizzy," he repeated in earnest. He was trying to be helpful. "Take small inhales first and hold the smoke in your mouth. It'll feel nice."

Greta lifted her chin defiantly. "I know how to smoke a cigarette."

"Well," he shrugged noncommittally, shoulders straightening out in hopes to impress her with his knowledge, "try it out the next time."

He pulled the tab from his mouth so his lips could reach the full extent of a smile. He wouldn't be fooled and he found it endearing how she seemed to be building herself up to look intimidating. Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, he fumbled through his trouser pockets with a free hand. "Here," he held out a small object, trying to act cool and unperturbed.

"What is it?" Greta eyed it warily.

He didn't answer, only extending it towards her until Greta had no choice but to take it to keep him from drifting any closer. She tore her cautious gaze away from him long enough to look down at the pocketknife. It sat heavy and cold in the palm of her hand.

"Hold onto that the next time you come down here." He sheepishly scratched the underside of his jaw. Heat was growing in his cheeks and he was glad that the nighttime concealed it from her. "Never know who you'll meet at this time of night."

Greta wrapped her fingers around the knife and took slow steps back, grateful for the distance created between herself and him.

"Hey, what's your name?" he asked before she was too far away.

"None of your business."

He chuckled again, not expecting such a direct response but enjoying it nonetheless. "I'm Tommy. Come back soon. I'll teach you some more tricks."

Not daring to entertain him with a reply, Greta Jurossi rushed toward home as fast as her feet would take her. The haze of the cigarette smoke had quickly worn off and she was running on adrenaline all the way to the side door of the family shop. Kitty had unlocked it and Greta made a mental note to thank her.

Bolting the door shut behind her, Greta rushed in, red in the face and high on the rush of it all. As she kicked off her shoes, undid the buttons on her blouse, and slipped into bed, Greta kept the knife in her palm. Her fingers ran up and down the back of the blade as it sat safely inside the handle. She'd have to hide it before she forgot. The only secret place she could think of was the wooden beams keeping the mattress from sinking in the middle. Greta quickly lifted a corner of the stuffed mattress and got rid of the knife before Kitty woke up to ask questions.

Tonight had been a close call. She swore to herself that she'd never sneak out again. There was no knowing if Tommy would be there to meet her if she did.