He was walking ahead of her in the crosswalk. The red hand was already flashing and, to the right of the scarlet palm, the number was steadily approaching zero.

“Come on!” he yelled. He didn’t even deign to look over his shoulder. “Why you gotta walk so slow? Walk faster!”

He finally turned his head and glared at her. The red hand had stopped flashing. The traffic lights overhead glowed green.

“Hurry up!” he irritably remarked as he stepped onto the curb. She was trailing about five feet behind him and, taking little steps, eventually joined him in the safety of the sidewalk.

He was probably in his early 30s. She was no more than three years of age.

I rarely have the opportunity to mill through Pike Place Market during the week. An unexpected free afternoon allowed me to anonymously wander along the waterfront.

Falafel sandwich in hand, I strolled through the Market as the breeze from the bay gently tossed the ends of my scarf into my face. It was surprisingly empty; the usual hordes of people who ogle the fish mongers, cram around the florists, and smell the bright fruits were absent. I walked with ease and did not feel the need to protect my sandwich from offending others.

The buskers were busy, performing passionately for their invisible audiences. A young man with hair covering most of his head and face howled along with his banjo. A blind woman, her arthritic fingers cradling the signature red-and-white cane, sang a quiet lullaby outside of Starbucks. An older fellow, hunched over on a beat up stool, strummed his tired guitar while humming.

The fragrance of the falafel sandwich wafted to my nose and I felt the saliva pooling in my mouth. The melodies from the buskers floated through the air and as one faded, another one swelled into full volume. I walked the entire length of the market with music in my ears.

Aren’t we all singing songs about our lives? I wondered. Some people just sing louder than others.

She looks terrible.

Yes, it is a judgment, but she looks terrible.

Her face is misshapen. Distorted. Asymmetrical. Wrinkled. Her mouth contains maybe five teeth, at most—and those that remain are dark and craggly, like abused blocks of concrete. Her hair is thin and stringy, her body is lumpy and sags, and her clothes are unclean and oversized. She looks twenty years older than she actually is.

She stands on a traffic island and holds a sign. In block letters, she advertises that she has no food and no money. She doesn’t smile; she doesn’t frown. She simply stands there and she looks terrible.

People assume things about her. Some people avert their eyes. Some people scrutinize her. Some people give her a spare dollar or loose change. Some people give her bags of food.

Everyone drives by.

Some of the assumptions people have about her are true: She is homeless. She doesn’t have the skills right now to hold a steady job. She does imbibe in large volumes of alcohol from time to time.

But there are the things that people don’t know about her: A man forces her to stand on the island and panhandle for him. He hits her if she refuses. Sometimes he asks her to do more than just panhandle.

He takes all the money she collects. He tells her what her name is, where she is from, and what her problems are.

She is scared of him. She wants to leave him; she doesn’t feel safe around him anymore. She only meets with the outreach worker and psychiatrist when she is alone; the man has already warned her to avoid them.

She wants to leave, but she has yet to do so.

I saw her on the traffic island tonight on my way home from work. She still looked terrible. After scrutinizing her, I averted my eyes.

And then I drove by.