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Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” I ask her price, she says 50 bucks. Fifty! For a quickie? Inflation’s a bitch, man. Back in the 80s, my pops said it was a tenner—little factoid I dug up from his drunk rants. She’s got this scar on her cheek, tiny, shaped like a crescent moon. “Got it from a john,” she says, shruggin. I’m pissed—some asshole cut her? But also, damn, she’s tough. Kinda hot.

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This book reads more like a collection of short stores of true crime, collectively taking you through one woman's eleven year journey through the sex trade.

I finally get back to the office, and I’m ready to collapse. But then, my team surprises me with a little celebration. “You survived the day!” they cheer. I can’t help but laugh.

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