a short story by William Shunn

In 1989, Hal Moore, my writing instructor at the University of Utah, complained to me that the stories I was producing didn't have any kind of connection with the "real world." (What, just because I was writing about melting statues? Sheesh.) I was a fine writer, he said, but if I wanted an A in his class then I was going to have to write something that connected with reality, that sprang directly from my life. As usual, I went a bit overboard in my zeal to turn in something appropriate to the assignment—more ferociously appropriate than I think Professor Moore really wanted. Nonetheless, I got my A—and became known by some of my classmates as a "brave" writer. Brave? Nonsense. At least, no more so than any other writer. In my mind, every bit of fiction is an act of bravery. There's nothing scarier than an empty page. Except perhaps jail. Or the threat of a B.

Alone, I paced the holding cell like an actor awaiting his final cue. The summons was coming, and I'd be out soon. It was just a matter of waiting. I kept checking the time, or trying to, but all there was on my wrist was a pale strip of skin where I'd worn my watch out in the sun. The watch itself was tucked away in a big plastic bag in some storage bin, along with my belt, my wallet, my car keys, assorted change, a few breath mints, and the black pin-on nametag that identified me as Elder Fielding of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.

My mouth was starting to taste sour. That pansy Elder Dekins was probably halfway from Calgary to Sacramento already.

I looked around, for what must have been the hundredth time. My cell was about twelve feet by twenty, with narrow benches along the three solid walls and a brushed metal toilet behind a partition in the back corner. Iron bars, whitewashed the same peeling hue as the walls, stood where the fourth wall should have been. I looked at my wrist again and then grimaced. I was going nuts without a watch. It seemed as if time had slowed down to a crawl. I tried to console myself with the thought that the prophet Joseph Smith had been through this and much worse in his day, but it didn't help. I sat down with my chin cupped in my hands.

I had a girlfriend named Jodi back home in Utah. I wondered how long until I'd see her again. Maybe not long at all. They'd probably boot my butt out of Canada after this stunt. I'd been writing Jodi a song for her birthday, and I sang the words to help pass the time:

"I was lost,
       I was caught on a dead end street,
       Somewhere between here and there,
       Somewhere between now and then . . ."

"Hey, songbird," shouted a voice from down the corridor, "why don't you shut the hell up?"

I jumped up and pressed my face as far through the whitewashed bars as I could. It was the evening guard who had spoken, a long-legged man with a ruddy face, straw-colored hair, and a mustache so blond it was almost invisible. He was reclining on a chair down the corridor, near the entrance to the room where I'd been photographed and fingerprinted. He held a magazine sideways in his hands. "Tell me what time it is and maybe I will," I said.

He folded the magazine together carefully and looked up. "It's time for you to sit down and shut up before I come back there and shut you up."

"They told me I'd see a bail magistrate tonight at ten."

"You're gonna see nothing but stars, kid, if you don't pipe down."

He looked like he was daring me to push it, so I didn't. I let go of the bars and sat down, but almost immediately there was such a commotion from down the hall that I jumped back up to see what was going on. Through the bars I saw four Calgary police officers wrestling a new prisoner into the hallway, and whoever it was, he was kicking like a bronco fresh from the chute. His hands were cuffed behind his back, but that hadn't taken the fight out of him. "Fuckin' pigs!" he screamed. "I'll tear your balls off and feed 'em to my dog! Those cocksuckers jumped me, and you let 'em get away, you jerk-offs! You pigs got fuckin' shit for brains, you know that? Just gimme half an hour and—"

One of the cops got around in front of him to try to shut him up, but the prisoner arched back and kicked him in the shin. The cop howled.

"That does it, grunt!" said one of the other cops, and a second later they had their prisoner slammed up face-first against the bars of my cell. The man's eyes were wide and wild, and they locked onto mine like heat-seeking missiles. Instinctively I scrambled back to the far bench.

He sucked in air with a sudden gasp, and his eyes got even bigger. The cops were twisting his arms up behind his back. He squeezed shut his eyes, teeth bared, and started kicking again.

The tall, red-faced guard was fumbling a key around in the lock. "Shit, watch his legs!" one of the cops yelled. "Hurry it up, Chuck! Come on!" They leaned harder on their prisoner, whose chest was crushed against the bars and heaving as if he couldn't breathe.

The lock clicked over, and realization hit me like a sudden and silent freight train.

They were putting him in with me.

"No," I said to myself, shaking my head. "No way, no." When they had first brought me in, there were three or four guys already in the holding cell. More were brought in over the course of the evening, but eventually everyone but me had been booked through. I finally had the cell to myself, and I was grateful for it. None of the others had said a word to me, but I could tell they hadn't liked having me there. With my short hair, shaven face, and clean casual clothes, I certainly didn't fit in.

I knew I was an easy target. There was no telling what this raving psychotic might do to me.

The door to the cell swung open with a nerve-grating rasp, and the cops shoved the new guy down to the floor. To anyone watching, I probably looked like I was in shock, but on the inside I was doing some fast talking with God. I wanted me or the lunatic out of there, and I wanted it done fast.

One of the cops jammed a foot in the small of the prisoner's back while another one unlocked the handcuffs. When the cuffs were free, the cop who'd gotten it in the shin leaned down and sneered, "Paybacks are fair play, you know, you bastard," then kicked the guy in the side of the knee, hard. The cop hobbled out of the cell, and the others followed.

The guard slammed the door shut.

"Fuckers," said the prisoner weakly, pushing himself up from the floor. He launched himself against the door and rattled it as hard he could. "Motherfuckers!" he shouted. "I'll sue your asses!"

The guard turned back and jabbed a finger at him. "You watch your mouth, punk!"

"Come watch it for me, you asshole."

The guard moved closer, and his face got redder. "You just keep it up. See what it gets you."

"Oh, leave it, Chuck," said one of the cops. They were on their way out of the cell block. "He's not worth it."

With a surly look, the guard said, "Keep it up," then turned reluctantly and walked out of view.

My new cellmate turned away from the bars and faced me. "Fuckin' pigs think they're God, eh?" he said, and his eyes gleamed with righteous indignation. I shrugged, my heart beating fast in my ears, not wanting to agree, but not wanting to disagree, either.

The guy started to pace. I swung my feet up onto the bench and sat with my arms wrapped around my knees, watching him. I would have ignored him if I'd felt safe doing it, but I was afraid to take my eyes off him.

He looked both young and old by turns, perhaps by a trick of the cell's harsh light, and he wore a faded Jack Daniels T-shirt that was a size too small. His brown corduroys were also too small, the hole where one of his back pockets had ripped showing nothing but bare flesh. He was thin and his chest was narrow, but what muscles I could see were lean and wiry. Blood had dried on his chin and under his nose, but still trickled from cuts under his eye and high on his arm. He had a bruise on one cheek, a split lower lip, and he limped some from where he'd been kicked.

His gait was a little bowlegged, but he didn't walk like a cowboy. He reminded me more of a wind-up toy, with a tightly coiled spring inside that would break if he didn't keep moving.

His boots clicked hollowly on the floor, and as he paced he didn't stop talking. "Assault and fuckin' battery," he said tightly, hands clenched into fists. "What a crock of shit. It was five on one, a goddamn free-for-all. Caught the asswipes bustin' into my mum's house, so what do I do? Grab a crowbar and have some words with 'em. What the fuck was I s'posed to do? Invite 'em in for a drink?"

He looked at me like he expected an answer. His eyes were hard and uncompromising, and all I could do was fidget. I didn't know what he wanted me to say. I wasn't at all sympathetic, and I didn't want to commiserate, so I ended up just shrugging again and raising my eyebrows.

"Damn right, I wasn't!" he said, smacking his fist into the palm of his hand. "Bastards had my mum's TV! It was her goddamn Christmas present! Said they were repossessin' it 'cause I still owed 'em money, but that was grade-A bullshit. I paid 'em already. Told 'em they were a pack of shit-faced liars, so they jump me. And I take the rap! Assault and fuckin' battery, with a deadly weapon, no less. How's that for justice?" He blew out an angry breath and shook his head. "They even got away with the fuckin' TV."

He threw himself down on the opposite bench and pulled a crumpled pack of Marlboros out of the front pocket of his corduroys. A few quick shakes and he had out a cigarette, which he stuck in the corner of his mouth and let dangle. He squinted into the pack, then turned it upside down and shook it some more. With a disgusted look, he tossed the empty pack into the corner. The torn paper matchbook he pulled out of his pocket next did him no better. "Shit," he said blandly. "You got a light on you, kid?"

My gaze snapped straight back to him. My contact lenses were drying out, and I'd let my eyes drift away as I tried to blink up some tears. "Uh, no," I stammered, "no, I don't." I looked at my shoe. "I'm not really a smoker."

"Huh," he grunted. His head was lowered like a bull ready to charge, and he peered at me from hollow sockets. "Then you've got nothin' else to do in this hole but climb the fuckin' walls." He stood up and went to the bars. "Hey, chuckles," he called to the guard. "Yeah, you, dipshit. How 'bout some matches down here, eh?"

I tensed for another confrontation, but to my surprise it didn't come. A fresh book of paper matches sailed through the bars, hit my cellmate in the shoulder, and dropped to the floor. "Now keep it the hell quiet back there!" came the guard's voice.

With a cynical grin that showed me stained and crooked teeth, my cellmate picked up the matchbook. The cigarette was still spit-glued to the corner of his mouth. "Thanks," he called out, then sat back down. He quietly added, "Asshole," then struck a match and puffed his cigarette to life. "All mouth and no balls."

The smell of fresh cigarette smoke chased away the smell of stale cigarette smoke. "You know," my cellmate said to me after a few minutes, looking around like he was checking out real estate at an open house, "this place really sucks." I must have grinned without realizing it, because his face turned serious and he poked his cigarette in my direction. "You think I'm jokin' around, don't you? Lemme tell you, kid, this place sucks the high hard one. I mean, you think it's pretty fuckin' rough bein' locked up for the night, but you can't even begin to 'preciate how bad it really is. Not like I can." He took a deep drag and blew out the smoke in a thin, angry stream. His voice got low. "I wouldn't wish this place on my worst enemy."

I had a hard time sitting still. I could think of half a dozen people whom I would gladly have let take my place, not the least of whom was that mama's boy Dekins. I wished he could have had just a few hours in there to see what I was going through. I wished it was him instead of me.

My cellmate absently stubbed out his cigarette beside him on the bench. It was only half smoked. He looked down and seemed surprised at what he'd done. "Oh, fuck," he said. He straightened out what was left of the cigarette and relit it. He brushed away the little bits of tobacco that flecked his knee, then stood and began pacing again. "But no way, man. I wouldn't wish this place on anyone. I'm twenty-nine years old, and I've done ten years already if you add it all up. I've got this little girl . . ."

His face got all pinched, and he took a furious drag on his cigarette which he held in for a long time. He closed his eyes and leaned facing away from me against the bars. He let the smoke out as slowly as a bicycle tire leaking air. When he went on, his voice was very soft. "I got a five-year-old girl I don't even know. When I went back in the can last time, my old lady took the kid and split. God, that girl was beautiful . . . like a little angel . . ."

He wiped his eye with a grimy thumb. "Her name's Jaelynn, my girl. Couldn't make up our minds, so we named her after both our dads. Shit." He was looking at the remoistened blood that had come off his face on the pad of his thumb. "Kid probably hates me now. There's no one around to say a good word about her old man."

He turned back to me. "See what I mean about this hole? It's the shittiest goddamn fuckin' place on earth." He pointed his cigarette at me. "Know those guys 'at jumped me? I'm goin' after 'em when I'm outta here. I'm gonna find 'em, and when I do I'm gonna kick the shit out of 'em. One at a time I'm gonna kick the shit out of 'em, so they know not to fuck with me. No crowbar this time, just bare fists." He looked at his cigarette, pinched between his thumb and middle finger. "But you know what I won't do? I won't rat 'em out. I might put 'em in the hospital, but I won't put 'em in jail, no way. I wouldn't do that to anybody."

He sat down, some of the intensity draining out of his face. He put his elbows on his knees and leaned over so he could rub the back of his neck. "Seventy fuckin' days," he said. "That's all I been out. Parole's in the shitcan now, eh?" He looked up, a hand still behind his neck. "Why the fuck am I tellin' you this, anyway?" He grimaced as if in pain and arched his back. "How old are you, kid?"

I sniffled. Deep cold from the wall of the cell was seeping into my shoulder and arm, but that wasn't what sent chills rippling over my skin. "Nineteen," I said, huddling a little more tightly around my knees.

"Been in before?"

"Not, uh . . . no."

"Shit." He shook his head and squinted at the flyspecked fluorescent lights. "When I was your age, I'd already done most of a year for armed robbery. What're you in for?"

I briefly considered telling the lie I'd dreamed up earlier, about how I hadn't known the girl was under age. But this guy had been pretty straight with me. It wouldn't be respectful to lie. "Public mischief," I said.

His eyebrows lifted, and his mouth curled wryly. "What the fuck does that mean? I mean, public mischief could be anything. They catch you pissin' in a fountain or what?"

I felt my face get hot. "I made a bomb threat against an airplane, okay?" It came out more harshly than I'd intended, and I felt sorry almost immediately.

"Fuck a duck," my cellmate said softly. "No kiddin'?"

"No kidding," I said.

He looked at me a little differently now, with less amusement. "How'd they catch you?" he asked.

"How'd they catch me?" I looked away, out into the dead-gray corridor. "It's—" I stopped, tried to work the rough edges out of my voice. "It's a long story. Too long to go into."

"We got nothin' but time here."

My face went hard. "You may, but I don't," I said, the roughness forcing its way past my teeth despite my best efforts to clench it down. "I've got a bail hearing any time now, and then I'm out of here, so why does it even matter?"

He shrugged, studying his ever-shorter cigarette, and again I felt a pang of guilt for the way I was acting. "I don't know," he said to his cigarette. "It prob'ly doesn't matter at all. I just had this hunch, is all." He shrugged again. "But you're right, it's not important. If I started thinkin' there were any decent people in here, I'd just be in for a big fuckin' let-down."

I stared into that corridor for what seemed like forever. The silence was thick enough to strangle someone with. "They didn't catch me at all," I said at last. "I turned myself in. I confessed."

My cellmate nodded. "'At's what I thought." He took a conservative drag. "Why'd you do it, anyway?"

"Confess?"

"No, why the bomb threat? Was it a prank? Were you bored, or what?"

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I could almost imagine wispy white smoke curling up from my mouth, a short, smoldering cigarette clenched between my gnarled, yellow fingers. I was suddenly afraid that if I said too much I'd be trapped there in that jail forever, like Persephone when she ate the pomegranate seeds in Hell. Ridiculous, I know, but that's how I felt.

But I had to talk about it. I massaged the bridge of my nose, trying to figure out where to start. "I had this friend from Sacramento," I said, "by the name of Brady Dekins. We did . . . volunteer work here in Calgary. He'd saved a lot of money to come here, worked really hard, and his family was so proud of him they could have busted a button." I ran a hand through my hair. "This afternoon he told me he was pulling out. Going home. Said he was sick of what he was doing and he wanted out. He had an airplane ticket, and his bags were all ready to go. He wanted me to take him to the airport."

There was more to it than that, a lot more, but it was easier just to leave those parts out. Like how important it was to people of our faith that their young men serve missions. How overwhelmingly important. I closed my eyes. "I tried to talk him out of it, but it didn't do any good. His mind was made up. Nothing was going to stop him."

My cellmate soberly nodded his head. "So you used a bomb threat to stop his plane."

Having him beat me to the punch like that made me feel transparent, like I was one of those little tropical fish whose insides are visible right through its skin. "It was a mistake for him to run away," I said, a little hotly. "I wanted him to talk to someone, our — our minister or someone. I couldn't let him go unless I'd done everything I could to keep him here."

His eyebrows knitted, and he looked like he was thinking very hard. "What makes you think it was a mistake?" he said. "I mean, how can you make that kind of a decision for somebody?"

"It was just a mistake, okay?" My eyes started to burn. "I've been there. I almost packed it in myself at Christmas. I bought a bus ticket for Salt Lake and hit the road. I was all the way to Great Falls before I decided to come back." My lower lip started to tremble. "My parents would have been crushed if I'd gone home, but there was more to it than that. I knew if I didn't stay I'd feel terrible about it for the rest of my life. I'd feel like I couldn't finish anything I started. I'd always be tempted to quit."

My cellmate took a last deep drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out. "That was a pretty fuckin' stupid way to keep him here, though. You know that."

I nodded, too tired to try to defend myself any longer.

"But at least your heart was in the right place," he added.

My eyebrows went up in surprise. "Yeah," I said softly, even though I wasn't sure my heart had really been where it should have. Elder Havens, my partner at Christmas, had respected my choice. He let me leave. He was disciplined for it, though, severely, and too much disciplinary action could get a missionary sent home in dishonor. "I guess it was."

"I mean, you're in some deep shit," said my cellmate, nodding his head. "I hope your friend 'preciates that."

"Yeah. So do I." But I doubted he would. I didn't think Dekins was the type.

"So this Dekins guy — did he end up stayin' in Calgary?"

I shrugged. "I have no idea. They held the plane so the cops could search it, but by the time they were through I'd already confessed and been taken into custody. I don't know if he was on the plane or not."

"I wouldn't have been," said my cellmate, almost like he was talking to himself. "No fuckin' way. Not if someone was willing to go to jail to stop me."

"He didn't know that. He was through Customs already by the time I made the call. He has no idea what I did."

"He knows." His voice was quiet and assured. "They held his plane, didn't they? Shit, my little kid could have figured out what was up."

"Yeah, well, five-year-olds can be a lot smarter than the rest of us sometimes," I said. "I've got a little sister that same age." I tried to still the trembling again. "I probably won't even recognize her when I see her again, she'll be so big."

My cellmate stretched out on his back, swinging his legs up onto the bench and letting out a long breath. "I don't even know what my kid looks like anymore. Tried to see her when I got out, but her mother wouldn't let me. Didn't want her little girl bein' corrupted by her evil old man." His lips twisted, like he was ready to spit. "God, that woman's a bitch. Never 'preciated a single fuckin' thing I did. Wouldn't ever have understood somethin' like what you did for your friend. I mean, I was in trouble all the time, but I was just tryin' to provide for 'em both. Get 'em some good food and somethin' nice to wear. I couldn't help it if I only knew one way to do that."

He hopped up suddenly and started to pace, just like before. "But it's gonna be different this time," he said through narrowed lips. "I can promise you that. I don't need her kinda shit, you know what I mean? I don't need it, and I don't deserve it. Well, okay, maybe I deserved it back then, but not anymore. I'm through."

There was a fresh gleam in his eye, and his body was as taut as piano wire. He looked like a man with a purpose now. I sincerely hoped he hadn't been inspired by anything he'd heard from me, because if he had, he hadn't interpreted it right.

He pointed a finger at me. "When I get outta here, things are reallygonna be different. I'm gonna find me a real woman, one 'at understands me, one 'at loves me for what I am. She's out there somewhere, I know she is."

The corner of his mouth twitched a little, and he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "When I find her," he said, "I'm gonna treat her so damn good she won't even believe it." His look was so intense that I don't think he even saw me anymore. He was seeing someone else. "She's gonna be so fuckin' beautiful I'll feel like cryin' every time I look at her. God."

There were shivers running all over my body. "I hope you find her," I said, feeling a sudden intense longing of my own. I reached for my wallet to take out Jodi's picture. I wanted to look at her, see if she were beautiful enough to make me cry.

The wallet, of course, wasn't there.

"Oh, I will," he said. "You'd better believe I will." He stood there for a bit while his eyes drifted back into focus, and then he was looking around like someone lost. "I will."

He sat down, moving a little stiffly, and was quiet for several moments. A few times it seemed like he was about to speak, but he didn't actually get anything out until maybe the fourth or fifth go. "Hey, kid," he said, trying to sound as if he'd just been struck by an offhand thought, "you gonna be around town for a while after you get out?"

"I don't know," I said. "That depends on a lot of things. I'm an American, you know. They might want to deport me." I laughed in self-deprecation. "And I thought Americans came to Canada to stay out of jail."

He grinned at that. "Well, you ought to gimme a call. We could get together sometime, maybe. I'll give you my number."

I wasn't sure exactly why, but seeing this guy again was suddenly very important. I nodded, said, "Okay," and started looking around for something I could write with.

"Hey, while we're on it, lemme ask you somethin'," he said. "If you don't want to tell me, that's okay, I'll understand. I'm just kinda curious."

"No, go ahead." All I could spot that I might be able to use for writing were some used paper matches and an empty matchbook cover lying on the floor. I picked up the matchbook and one match.

My cellmate seemed somewhat embarrassed now. "What, uh, what kind of volunteer work is it you do? I mean, it seems like it was somethin' important, but you never said what it was."

I smiled a little, embarrassed, looking at the bits of trash in my hand. It was a Monday, our day for shopping and laundry and recreation, so I wasn't in my suit and tie. We were supposed to wear our nametags at all times, though, and this was the first occasion in months when I'd had any anonymity. I was reluctant to give that up. "You probably won't believe me."

"No, I'll believe you. Don't worry. I've heard everythin'."

I coughed. "I'm a . . . well, I'm a Mormon missionary."

His eyes widened for a moment, but then he controlled them. "Hey, that's cool," he said, holding his hands up, palms out, "that's okay. I can handle that. You believe in what you're doin', I'm sure. That's what matters."

"I wasn't sure what you'd think."

"Shit, kid— Sorry, I mean shoot, I guess. I can't really help my language." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Does it really matter what I think?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, it kind of does."

He leaned back on the bench and crossed his ankles. He didn't look at me. "You know," he said slowly, like he was making a painful confession, "it's not really that fuckin' weird to be religious. Even people like me think about God sometimes."

The skin on my arms turned to goosebumps. I'd been trained to take advantage of situations like this, and the words flowed from my mouth practically of their own volition, as if the Holy Ghost were whispering them right in my ear. "Lots of people believe in a Supreme Being," I said. "We know Him as God, just like you do, and we believe that—"

Two sets of footsteps echoed in the corridor, keys jangled, and my blood froze. Not now! The hearing couldn't be now, not when there was teaching to be done!

"Daguerre!" called a loud voice, and our red-faced guard stopped in front of the cell with an officer I hadn't seen before.

"Yeah, I'm here," said my cellmate wearily. "Where the fuck else would I be?"

The guard twisted his key in the lock. "Let's go. Your paperwork's done, so it's upstairs for the night." He pushed open the door.

My cellmate — Daguerre, I should call him — stood and hitched up his torn corduroy pants. "Well, nothin' like a good escort service, eh?" He turned to me. "Now you give me a call, kid. I'll beat this rap. We'll get together."

I felt a big pit in my stomach. These cops were the least welcome sight of the evening. I wanted to scream at the unfairness of it, but I couldn't get enough wind. I felt like I'd been punched. "I never got your number," I said hollowly. "You never told it to me."

The new cop snapped a pair of handcuffs on Daguerre's wrists and shoved him out of the cell. "Come on, grunt. We ain't runnin' no goddamn social club here."

The cell door slammed shut. Daguerre was reciting some numbers and I was trying to scratch them down, but my burnt paper match wouldn't make a mark. "What was that?" I said, hurrying to the bars. I'd have to commit the numbers to memory. Someone needed to have a talk with Daguerre's little girl.

But the cops were already hustling him away down the corridor. "I said good luck, kid. Take care."

I watched them disappear around the corner with a feeling of loss more acute than any I'd known. I was still on my feet a few minutes later, the bars clenched like lifelines in my hands, when another cop came to the cell. It was one of the ones who'd taken my confession. He was short and a little pudgy, but he had treated me decently. Out of respect for my calling as a missionary, he hadn't made me wear handcuffs on the way to the jail.

He had told me earlier I'd be free that night.

"Uh, Fielding?" said the officer.

"Yeah." My voice sounded strange to my own ears.

"How you doing so far?"

I shrugged. "Been better."

"Yeah, well." His brow was wrinkled, and he fidgeted around like he had news he didn't want to tell me. "Listen, Fielding, I'm afraid your hearing won't be till tomorrow morning. Just came down from the Crown Prosecutor's office. They want to scare you a little, I think. Be tough on terrorism and all." He looked apologetic. "We're gonna have to keep you here overnight. Maybe longer."

I leaned my head against the bars. "Terrific."

"But hey," he said, brightening, "we finally got hold of your people. They been out looking for you all night. There's a couple of 'em waiting to see you. They even brought you a change of clothes so you'll look good for the hearing tomorrow."

I shook my head and looked away. "Yeah, I'll bet they did," I said, closing my eyes and massaging my temples. Stupid, naïve missionaries. A suit would be all rumpled in the morning, and the cops would never let me keep the tie. I was better off with what I was wearing. "I'll bet they just did."

It was one more thing to set me apart from men like Daguerre. I didn't want it. Even if just for that one night, I wanted my anonymity.

I wanted more friends.