There are seven little china dolls lined up on the counter near the window.

I count them again, while I wait, nervously fluttering fingers over my suitcase buckle, my belt buckle, my shoelace and back again. I am still not sure how I found myself here. I am still not sure what I will find here.

Dirty curtains hang across the doorframe to my left. I think they were once paisley printed, in turquoise or orange. Color, obviously is faded to brown, a murky colorless shade that indicates an era without warmth. The rest of the place isn’t that dingy. I wonder at the curtains significance. Why leave something that looks like crap up for so long?

When she comes through the curtains I am taken aback. Not what I expected at all. She is young, mid-thirties maybe, with long dark hair held back from her face with two small clips, the type with butterflies balanced on the end that are usually reserved for children eight and under. Her black dress was simple, not sexy. Her lips were red.

“You’re here to see about Nyanna?” She asks me with her head cocked to the right. A slight accent, maybe just deep south coming through after years of good northern coverage, draws me in. Her lips are red. They form each word slowly and perfectly.