I sit at the bus station, hating the Port Authority terminal is only one block from Time's Square, three from Broadway, just another reminder of my failure. I hug my purse to me as a pair of young men argue together a row of seats down, one finally handing over some dirty bills, the other quick with a small plastic baggie. The security guard ignores them as though drug deals in the open are commonplace.

I guess they are. And it's really for the best I'm leaving.

I spent ...