I round the final flight of stairs, pushing through my concerns with one firm hand against the exit bar, the outside sky darker than I expected, night rapidly falling. I might miss the sunset. I might return to my apartment and it will be gone.

Night: a stupid mistake. I should have done this during the day. On my lunch break. Night is reckless. Night is dangerous. Not just for others—for myself. This is the neighborhood where criminals hog the air, where the howl of a siren is as common as the chirp of a bird. I should have a weapon, something to defend myself with.

Defense. Sure. Another lie to myself? I’m too deep in my own shit to know.

I trip over a broken curb and right myself. At least my urges are being quiet. I should have four to five hours of sanity left. At least forty-five minutes before Simon swings by to lock me in. I will be fine. I can handle this. I move down the sidewalk, gripping the inside fabric of my jacket pockets. Keep my hands in.

In my back pocket is a twenty. I felt so mature slipping it back there—like I was a kid with Mommy’s credit card.

Look, I am an adult.

I must be an adult because I have money.

I am an adult because I left the house on my own.

I am an adult because I can handle myself. Buy a snack and not try to kill anybody.

I step into the street, a blared horn scaring the shit out of me, and I jump, jogging forward, out of the way of an oncoming car. I manage to survive the street crossing and face the store, my eyes following the skittish steps of JitterBoy, who approaches me as I move.

“Got any cash?”

I shoot him a look that I hope accurately communicates my level of incredulity at his question. “Not that I’m giving you.”

“Please.” He holds out his hand as if I’m going to give him something. Give it to him! I stare at his palm for a beat, shake my head, and shoulder past him, my arm brushing against him, and I suddenly want to chop off that limb and throw it away forever.

Is this what life is outside my door? Druggies like Simon, JitterBoy? People who think they can approach strangers and ask for money? Like a simple “please” will grant them free access to whatever is in my pocket? I yank my jacket sleeve down, far enough to protect my hand from germs, and grab the door handle, the word Pull helpfully provided next to a faded image of Joe Camel and a sign announcing that they have only fifty dollars in cash.

I step inside.

CHAPTER 14

I AM SUCH a good girl. I prove, with the direct route I take, that I can do this. I spy the yellow cooler against the back and walk directly to it, not passing GO, not taking two hundred dollars or the life of the little old lady who checks out the gum aisle. I slide open the cooler and examine the chocolate. Oohh… Godiva chocolate–covered vanilla. Gas station fare has gotten fancy in my time away. I stay loyal, breathing a sigh of relief when I see the Snickers, king-sized, at the back. I grab one, think about two, I can come back for more, and shut the lid. Eleven steps to the right. Sodas. Rows and rows, stacks and stacks. I hesitate briefly at Cherry Coke but keep moving, grab a can of Dr Pepper, and shut the case.

I am doing so well! Thoughts behaving, mind clear. A simple errand that is, obviously, no trouble to my psyche. My eyes notice more. Tampons in the row before me. Cleaning supplies. Red Bull. A sewing kit. Phone cards. I could shop online less. Come here more. Just across the street, no reason not to. I don’t have to order bottled water online; they sell it here.

I step to the register, one man ahead of me. My eyes skip over him. Bald. Old. Small. Still too big for me to tackle. He steps up to the counter, slides over a lotto card, lead dots peppering its surface.

I stand in place, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. My feet are hot. Itchy. They aren’t used to the constriction of socks and shoes and the blow of an overenthusiastic gas station heater.

Something’s wrong with the man’s lottery card. Bits of discussion float over the man’s shoulder with the scent of… I sniff, trying to hide the action. Sawdust? I glance over his backside. Worn jeans, dark wash. Boots. A red T-shirt, pulled up on one side enough to show the hint of… I squint, move closer. Bend to the side slightly for a better look. I think it’s a Leatherman. My heart picks up pace, drumming a happy rhythm in my chest.

My father had a Leatherman. It was a Christmas present, selected by my mother, and wrapped in ribbon and stuck under the tree. I watched him open it, earbuds already put in, my iPod rudely blaring any thought of family time from my head, the entire present-opening experience set to the tune of Mötley Crüe. I didn’t notice anything particularly special about the present, smiled politely when he oohed and aahed over the nine tiny knives, the fourteen other accompaniments that would open wine corks, unscrew eyeglass threads, tweeze, puncture, hole punch, saw. I smiled, I listened to my music, and I wondered if any of the other yet-to-be-unwrapped presents under the tree were mine. During the next two years, I occasionally had need of his gift, would wrap my small hands around the metal tool, cutting wire or unscrewing the back of the remote. I never thought about the many ways it could be used to torture. Kill.