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Her real name’s lost, like a VIN number scratched off a stolen ride. They say she came up from nothin—orphaned, bounced round foster homes, turned tricks by 16. Dark, huh? But she’s smart—hustlin’s her wrench, fixin her own fucked-up life. “The world’s gone to hell,” I’d tell her, quotin the movie, and she’d just shrug, “Ain’t my first rodeo, grease monkey.”

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Then I hit up the local market on the Markt. Man, the smell of fresh stroopwafels hit me like a freight train. I had to get one. Or two. Okay, maybe three. Don’t judge! They were calling my name. I’m standing there, stuffing my face, when I see this old lady, Mrs. van Dijk, trying to haggle over some flowers. She’s like, “I’ll give you two euros for those tulips!” The vendor’s like, “Lady, they’re ten!” And she’s all, “But they’re wilted!” I’m dying laughing. Udenhout’s got character, for real.

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