One day I was taking a break from my kitchen duties in the smoking section of the all-women’s shelter where I was doing my missionary work. One of the new women came up to sit and stare at the wall in front of us. She was in a daze, that same look of shock and disbelief that I had seen before in the eyes of other women new to the streets, but there was something else that I recognized in her eyes. I sensed that she had a wounded spirit. My sympathetic instincts told me that her psyche had been injured in a way which I was personally familiar. I broke the silence between us. “How are you doing?”
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