Take a walk down any street in New York and you'll see a hundred of girls just like Edith, for better or worse.  Just a shade past five feet tall, long dark hair, slim.  Scrawny, really.  Eighty pounds soaking wet.  Might be someone you'd think was pretty if she had a few good meals in her, slept off those dark rings under her tired eyes, and wore something properly ladylike.

Yeah, there's a hundred girls just like her.  A forlorn young woman selling apples on a street corner one day, and selling her companionship on another corner come night.  No other way to survive for those lost souls.  A resident of the Brock Foundation - an orphanage and halfway house for the youth who never had a chance.  The kind of place that everyone knows churns out thieves, grunts, runners, and entertainment for the crime families of the city, but nobody says a word.  Edith's never known anything else.  Never had a chance.  Never had a family.  Never had anyone.

So Edith makes herself useful.  Makes herself known to those who need an extra set of hands, a fleet set of legs that know where to walk and not be seen.  A set of eyes and ears and a pretty face that can get her in where others won't suspect.  The cops know her, for better or worse.  So do the families.  So do the locals.  She gets around, she knows people, but she's still all alone.

...well, maybe not anymore.  Take a walk down any street in New York and you'll see a hundred girls just like Edith.  But, when the sky is dark and the moon is high, try looking up.  Up across the rooftops and the construction towers and the looming skyscrapers that fill the horizon.  If you're real unlucky, you might just see Edith instead, and realize she's not alone.