She stepped off the train. Her small black boots, once stylish some number of years ago, splashed into a puddle, wetting the bottom of her blue skirt.
Her name was Miranda Faust, she had just arrived from New York, she was on vacation from Italy, where her and her Husband lived.
Her husband was french, not Italian, but they both had loved Tuscany so much when they were there on their honeymoon that they decided to stay.
Her Husband was working, he was on a business trip to York. He worked for a bank headed by an old Jewish friend. His boss was grumpy, but okay once you got to know him.
She had taken that opportunity to try to find her father.
He had seemed to drop off the face of the planet a few years ago, and, because his mental health hadnt been spectacular then, she was worried.
Sadly, she hadnt had an opportunity to try to find him in a long time.
Not that she hadnt tried, but when a poor old actor, who cant afford a credit card or bank account, moves out and no trace of him is left its kindof difficult to tell where he moved to.
She finally tracked him down though.
Somebody in Chicago had mentioned that he might be in New York, and she had found someone who once worked with him here in Wilshire tower.
She bought some coffee from some kindly turkish man, then headed towards the theater.