Henrietta pulled her cloak tighter around her throat, and stepped out from the safety of the alcove into the thunderous roar of the storm as it enveloped the city streets. Father’s coach was due to return to collect her at the conclusion of the party, but she could not bare to stay a moment longer. She had come to Cunningham’s ball hoping for a night of thrills, romance. A night to demonstrate who she was as a woman, a figure on the social scene, a potential wife.

What she had gotten was humiliation.

She dared not stay, but without her coach, the path to leave was dismal and nearly as horrid as the scene she was leaving behind. Almost, but not quite.

The puddles had already started to collect in the crevices of the cobblestones on Queen Street as Henrietta stepped out of the shadows and looked up Queen Street towards the battery. When she had first made her flight from the house, she had envisioned storming home right along with the the wind. Standing now exposed to the elements, she saw the folly in that plan. She would have to wait for her driver after all, but if anyone from the party were to see her, she would be even more mortified than she was at present.

She glanced around the street from underneath her hood, trying to make out a place to wile away the time until she would be collected and could return home with her dignity intact.

“Well, what would have done differently if you could go back to that moment knowing what you know now?”

I leaned back in my chair and stared out the window of my therapist’s office. It was a fair question, but I did not have a fair answer. I had begun to come to this office eight months before to work on challenges in our marriage, the thought always being that this was simply a rough patch and after putting in the work, we could come out on the other side stronger than ever. And yet, here I found myself in the same chair planning emotional steps to survive my divorce. How did we get here? And, as Dr. Collin’s question begged, what coulda, woulda, shoulda we done differently?

I closed my eyes, trying to go back to the beginning. The start of this fairy tale turned tragedy, the happily ever after - the wedding day. The plans leading up to it had taken a year and a half and a small fortune. It had seemed like a dream come true, but should she have known how it would end even then?

We had spent the night before the wedding apart, even though we lived together. We wanted it to be special, traditional, all of those butterfly feelings. I wanted to wake up feeling excited, blasting music and dancing to “Going to the Chapel”.

Instead, I woke up feeling alone. That wasn’t Mark’s fault, but I woke up feeling resentful of him all the same. In the moment, though, looking around the empty hotel room I felt abandoned and empty. My sister and the bridal party arrived soon after, champagne started flowing, hearing flying and feelings were smushed down. It would be good practice for the next eight years.

The distractions had worked though. I smiled and laughed, and the photos from before the ceremony exuded joy and happiness. Soon we found ourselves in the room to the side of the chapel, and one by one each of my closest friends exited to make their way down the aisle. My sister was the last to leave, squeezing my hand as she left. Alone in the room, my stomach filled with what I recognize now as dread, but told myself in the moment was excitement and nerves, emotion over my father not being there to walk me down the aisle.

If Dad had still been alive, would this have turned out differently? Would he have helped me to walk away sooner? Would I never have been so broken in the first place that my marriage crumbled around me? Maybe I would have known how to be happy. We will never know.

The doors opened, I saw Mark at the end of the aisle and my stomach sunk. For years, I would tell this story and say it leapt. The things we come up with the truth is too terrifying. Mark held my gaze, wiped away a tear. He said it was a tear of joy, but had he been lying to himself too?

In the years to come, the wedding would be talked about as a beautiful event, words like stunning and flawless used, women planning events asking me for recommendations. Mark and I had our challenges the moment we got home from the honeymoon, but what was one to expect coming down from such an occasion. Try as we might, we never lived up to the fairy tale ending.

I had never told anyone, not even Dr. Collins. The day Mark moved out, I found myself in the attic, in front of the trunk with our wedding mementos. My preserved dress was on the very top, and without thinking I stepped into it. It would no longer zip up all the way in the back, but the cap sleeves held it up all the same. I walked around the half empty house. I expected to feel empty and alone, the hollowness that had rung through the empty hotel room on that morning 8 years ago.

Dr. Collins repeated her question. A tear ran down my cheek, and I knew she was likely thinking that as I stared out the window, I was thinking back on all the regrets of my marriage, feeling broken and alone. But out the window, I could see the horizon. The sky stretching on seemingly forever. And knew that now, finally so did my future.

The dust billowed across the top of the cardboard garrison of the attic as the hatch swung open, collecting in the air like powdered memories swirling above the countless family artifacts before settling back to cover them again. Quinn pulled herself up the top rung of the ladder and through the opening, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim light coming through the slated openings in the half closed shutters. She had been putting off this task for nearly a week, but with the service slated for tomorrow, there was no more room for procrastination.

Quinn was the only child of the very normal, conservative, reputable and always very content and did we mention normal, thank you very much pair, Barbara and Stuart. Throughout her life, that had meant that she had been the only recipient of their love, of their evaluation (judgement is such a harsh word, isn’t), and now, of the endless to do list for her father’s funeral. Today’s task - tracking down old photos for the memorial service slideshow.

It was not that her parents did not have ANY family photos displayed. There had always been their wedding portrait in a frame somewhere, a scattering of images of her childhood, and her current year’s school photo was on display until her senior portrait took its place with the wedding portrait in perpetuity. But in their sizable home in Northwest DC that resembled an art gallery both in style and contents, the family photo to classical masterpiece ratio rivaled that of some public school systems - charter schools not included. So the task of putting together the number of photos the funeral home suggested for the requested slideshow had presented a challenge, the solution to which found Quinn inhaling dust and dodging cobwebs.

She opened the first box. Christmas decorations. The second. Ski equipment. The sixth. Extremely outdated bank statements. The tenth, finally, smaller boxes of faded photographs, slides and negatives. She pulled out the first box and set it on the old secretary desk against the back wall and began going through looking for contents relevant to the task at hand.

The pictures were an assemblage of faces familiar and foreign to her. She began to recognize younger versions of her parents right away, and slowly images of other distant relatives and friends began to become discernible through the layers of age. Her aunt Susan laughing with her mother in a park Quinn recognized as the one near the church they attended a few times with her grandparents. Her parents in front of a house with mountains in the background that must have been when they lived in Boulder before she was born, right after they were married.

Her parents had never told her many stories about that time. She only knew that they lived there for a few years when they were first married when her father was an associate professor at UC Boulder. They had been settled in DC for three years when she was born, and as that was the only life and home she had ever known questioning her parents about their life “before” never made much sense. She picked up a small stack of the photos and sat down to examine them closer.

Her father standing in front of the Flatirons striking a muscle man pose. Her mother, laughing with her hands on her hips in front of the red Volvo station wagon they still had when she had come along. Her parents in front of a house on a hill with a chain link fence that must of been their first home together. Her parents sitting on the front porch looking at each other. Her mom walking up the front steps holding a baby.

Holding a baby.

Quinn looked at the lid of the box she had just pulled the photos from. In faded blue ink, she made out the words “photos 1977-1979.” She had been born in 1983.

She felt like she was going crazy, and her mind start grasping for explanations. It could be a cousin, or perhaps the child of a friend. She started flipping through the photos faster, hoping to find a reasonable answer. The child in the living room of her parents home. Her parents bathing the child. The child at a table that looked set for Thanksgiving. The child in the arms of Quinn’s grandparents.

A neighbor child is not present for holidays, and they certainly would not have photographed themselves bathing the child of a friend. A relative would have also been in the photos if it was a cousin. Her stomach sunk with every new piece of evidence, the truth creeping in like the bile at the back of her throat.

She had no idea who she was or what was true. But one thing was very clear. She had never truly been an only child.

Hilary put the last of the dishes into the state of the art dishwasher installed during the recent kitchen renovation, and rinsed the soapy water from her hands as she glanced over her shoulder at the clock above the dining table. 2:48 pm. The bus would be dropping Sophia off in exactly 17 minutes, the perfect amount of time to switch the laundry and set out some fruit and milk for her sweet girl’s afternoon snack.

When they had moved back to Willowbrooke, Hilary’s hometown, she had only scheduled viewings of homes in the Orchid Gates neighborhood. She had walked by it every day on her way home - huge brick homes, gardens that seemed like parks and ponds on every other block full of ducks that was a child Hilary imagined herself feeding with bread cubes. Her family had lived well enough, in a duplex on the other side of town, with only a small side yard and no garden to speak of. But well enough had never felt good enough for her. Her husband had not been happy about their offer on this house, which was more than a little bit out of the budget they had prepared at the onset of their move. It was the largest house in Orchid Gates, and much larger than their family of three needed. But Hilary insisted.

She shut the door to the laundry room to muffle the sound of the dryer and made her way through the formal dining room towards the kitchen to prepare Sophia’s snack. Before having kids, Hilary had worked in advertising but had given her notice when she was six months pregnant. Kyle had suggested she get back into it when Sophia started kindergarten, but Hilary didn’t consider it for a moment. She wanted to be there for every field trip, every parent volunteer opportunity, every Girl Scout mother daughter tea party. Sophia feeling important, special and taken care of was the only thing that mattered to her. And she wanted to make sure everyone knew it.

Sophia walked through the door at precisely 3:06 pm, placed her book bag on the hook and her Mary Janes neatly in her cubby, washed her hands and joined her mother on the island for snack and a debrief. Hilary knew the days of her daughter being willing to tell her about her day were numbered. Even in the first grade, she saw glimpses of the attitude she was sure was coming sooner than she could ever know. But for today, Sophia could not wait to tell her how show and tell had gone.

“Did your friends enjoy seeing your mermaid doll today? What kind of questions did they ask you?”

Sophia took a bite of apple, and turned the other end to dip in the peanut butter her mother had placed in a crystal side dish for her. “They asked if it was my favorite color. Clara asked how much I liked it and if I was willing to trade.” She took a bite of the apple, and peanut butter dribbled on her chin. Hilary wiped it with the corner of the cloth napkin, but stopped herself short of licking it. “Wait, Clara asked you to trade what?”

“My mermaid doll. I told her no, it was new, but the necklace she brought was pretty and it is my real favorite color, so I said okay.”

“Honey, trade? What do you mean? You can’t give away your things, dear. Your father just bought that doll for you!”

But then Hilary noticed the necklace around her daughter’s neck and her heart skipped a beat. She thought she might be seeing things, perhaps too much sun in the garden after lunch. But she picked up the pendant between her fingers. It was real. A circular piece of tin metal, a cheap piece of blue plastic bought on the Jersey shore but her mother 25 years ago. She had not seen it since she herself had been seven years old. The summer her mother left.

Swallow, Alice told herself, consciously reminding herself to act like everything was normal. Happy. Even keel. Charming. The kind of girl people would expect to find on a date with a handsome and wealthy attorney in an upscale bar in northwest Washington DC on a Friday night. The kind of girl who knew what to order and how to pronounce it. Who knew how to pick out the right outfit to wear on the date in the upscale bar while ordering the right thing. The kind of girl people liked to be around, who knew what to say, who laughed at the right time and could make her date laugh while flipping her hair. A girl who was certainly not her.

Hidden deep in Alice’s purse was proof of the true person she was, a photograph of her, aged seven. Her face is dirty and her eyes are sad, but she is dressed in a clean, new purple jumper and spotless white tights with patent leather Mary Janes. Her grandparents had come over unexpectedly on her birthday, with new clothes for her and an envelope of cash for her mother. The money would be gone before they made it out of the city limits. She carried it around with her especially on days of big accomplishments or milestones. Starting a new job. A big test. Graduation. A date with a very handsome and wealthy man. She supposed it was like a hair shirt, pain to remind her never to get ahead of herself or expect too much, because some part of her would always be that dirty faced, sad little girl. It didn’t matter how shiny her shoes were or how expensive the cashmere was.

Guilt washed over her as she realized while her mind had been wandering, her date had been talking without her hearing a word. Her therapist would say that this was a moment of ego and mindfulness would break her out of it. She chose to chug her chardonnay instead. She focused in on what he was saying, a story about issues on the metro on his way to work this morning and how the system wouldn’t have any of these issues if it was privatized what did you expect from a structure run by the government. Alice was a liberal, and worked for the federal government, and her date knew all of this - at least, it had been in the bio of the dating profile he had swiped right on and said was so attractive. She was not going to remind him though, that is not what the kind of girl people expected in this kind of bar with this kind of man to do. She smiled and said, you make a really good point, I never thought about it that way. The waiter asked if they wanted another round and Alice nodded before he finished the question, the third of what would likely be five or six. Until she was the kind of girl who would be whatever he wanted. The kind of girl who couldn’t feel anymore. Until the headache tomorrow morning.

The tardy bell rang and Ms. Greer smiled as the last of her students hurried into her classroom. She began to close the door behind Annabelle, but felt resistance as she pulled it shut.

“Knock, knock. Happy Monday,” came the familiar nasal tone of Mrs. Anderson, the front office clerk. She had a forced smile on her face that told Ms. Greer that she was absolutely not going to like what happened next.

“Good Morning, Mrs. Anderson. Didn’t see you there. Was just going to get my literacy small groups started.” See, I am already busy, you can not ask me to do anything, she thought.

“Oh great, I’m just in time then.” Mrs. Anderson stepped slightly to the side, revealing a young girl of about eight Ms. Greer had never seen before. And she knew every student in the school. “This is Camilla, her family just moved here from Tallahassee, and she has been assigned to your class.”

Ms. Greer swallowed slowly and made herself very aware of the expression on her face, keeping it pleasant and warm. Her class already had thirty-two second graders. Four children were already sharing cubbies. Her small groups were laughable in size - more mid-sized van than compact vehicles to learning. They were scrapping the bottom of the barrel for paper, pencils and patience. But that was not this sweet little girl’s fault. And truthfully, it was not Mrs. Anderson’s fault either.

“Thank you so much for showing her to the room, Mrs. Anderson. Does she have a file or any paperwork?”

“Yes, it will be in your box by planning period,” Mrs. Anderson giggled, turning on her heel. Ms. Greer began to bend down to introduce herself to Camilla, but was stopped by Mrs. Anderson turning back. “Oh my goodness, I almost forgot,” she chuckled, “Sweet girl does not speak a word of English. Have a wonderful day!”

Ms. Greer’s mouth hung open, watching the secretary’s back skip away. She looked down at Camilla’s face, looking eager and anxious. She shut her mouth and smiled, opening the door wide for her unexpected guest. Of course, there was no cubby prepared, no desk available, no anchoring space she could guide this child to or to make her feel welcomed. The other students were engrossed in their morning work, mostly on task, used to disturbances of visitors and later classmates at this time and thus unfazed by her and Camilla’s ordeal. Ms. Greer scanned the room, considering her options. No desk for her to do independent work at. She had no books in Spanish for independent reading. It did not seem practical to put her in the math small group that was being cooperatively led by other second graders Camilla could not communicate with. Literacy small group it was.

Motioning with her hand to Camilla to follow her, Ms. Greer led the girl to an open chair at the half moon table between her desk and the cubbies. She handed Camilla a book with dogs on the cover.

(To be continued.)

Richard went to the bodega every single day. It was much a part of his day as his morning shower or his evening glass of bourbon. Wake up, drink coffee, dress, stop at the bodega for a second coffee and a paper on the way to his train into the city. Off the train, stop at the bodega for a beer for the walk, sometimes a snack if he hadn’t had a decent lunch before home for the evening. Day in. Day out. Home, bodega, train. Train, bodega, home.

Along with the bodega came Rayed, the owner. Richard knew his name only because of the name tag he wore, he doubted it had come up in the five years of daily visits. Richard never missed a day at the bodega. He had not been home for the holidays since his father died ten years ago, and he seemed to be allergic to relaxing so vacations had never been part of the plan, even if his finance career had allowed the time. Rayed also never missed a day at the bodega - holidays, weekends, storms.

The door to his apartment slammed shut of its own accord behind him. Richard made sure to jiggle the doorknob no less than three times to ensure it was securely locked. Home. He turned down the street - right, left, left, straight down the hill to the train station. Always the same. After his first left, he walks through the familiar door with the same jangle as he entered. Bodega. Rayed was behind the counter as always. Richard made his way to the back for his coffee, filling up his travel mug from home to save ten cents and be sure the lid wouldn’t leak down his freshly pressed white Brooks Brothers shirt. He grabbed a paper on his way to the counter, and for the first time this morning, actually looked at Rayed. He looked ashen and pale, more tired than usual. Richard had seen Rayed look unwell before, to be sure. The man never missed a day, though, and the shop was always well stocked with papers, coffee and beer. Richard just hoped whatever it was wasn’t too contagious. He’d hate to be under the weather for his big presentation next week.

Rayed rung up the coffee and the paper. As he handed Richard his change with one hand, he held out the other to shake, saying pleasantly, “Have a great day, sir.” Richard hesitated, accepted the change, acting like the outreached hand just didn’t exist. “You too, man,” he mumbled as he exited as quickly as he could. Second left. Down the hill. Train.

Richard’s any at work passed like any other - e-mails, meetings, meetings, e-mails, calls, e-mails, meetings, meetings that could have been e-mails. Finally, sixteen minutes past six, Richard decided to call it quits for the day. He logged off of his accounts, got his coat and took the elevator down to the lobby, went through the revolving door and kept walking to the right down the street. Right, right, left, down the stairs to the station. Train.

His commute out of the city always felt longer than his commute into the city. He supposed the trip home likely always did, no matter what form it took. Finally, the train pulled into the station and he exited to the platform, up the stairs, out the turnstile, up the hill, first right. Bodega.

Richard was so startled by the brightness of the flashing lights, he almost fell off the curb. It wasn’t a huge assemblage, two police cars and an ambulance, but on this sleepy street outside of the city, police lights usually just meant a speeding ticket. Richard’s stomach dropped seeing the caution tape across the door of the bodega. His bodega. Everything seemed heavy, but calm - not an active scene, but the aftermath of the wreck. Police officers were milling about, apparently waiting for the EMT’s to finish with whatever catastrophe was inside. There was sign of struggle, blood or accident outside, after all.

Looking around him, Richard tried to find Rayed. He assumed he would be giving a statement to police, but didn’t see him anywhere. Standing next to the fence separating the bodega from the alley, he noticed an elderly woman he recognized from the grocery store.

“Excuse me,” he started, surprised at himself for approaching a stranger for something that was truly none of his business, “Have you seen Rayed? Did he leave with some officers to give a statement at the station? What happened, anyway?”

The woman shifted her purse from one side to the other, clearly uncomfortable. “No, honey, Rayed is still inside,” she said softly, “He had a heart attack. Cheryl who I play bridge with was in getting milk when he just collapsed! Can you imagine? Her Jimmy called 911 when she came running outside, but I overheard one of the officers saying that they were too late. Poor man.”

Richard thanked her and wordlessly took the next right and then a left. Home.

He should have shaken the man’s hand.

Ryder entered the shop near the center of town. It felt foreign despite the fact that he had walked past it countless times in pursuit of the afternoon bus or running late for the office. But what use had he had to notice a diamond exchange before meeting Celia?

Ryder walked up to the case where the luminous stones were displayed and waited for the dealer to acknowledge him. Fifty years ago, the idea of buying an engagement ring would have been an occasion full of joyful apprehension. He remembered his father told him about selecting his mother’s engagement ring when the Keepers had come for her mother’s belongings the week after her death. One of the new normals, being stripped of all material reminders of the dead under the pretext of protecting the population from the idleness of grief. His father described seeing it in the window, and being reminded of how clouds reflected in his mother’s blue eyes. He had not even been thinking of proposing, his father said, but when he saw that ring he knew it was right - the ring, Ryder’s mother, the life they could have together. Ryder saw a shimmer of joy in his father’s eyes for a moment before he placed the ring in the vessel held by the Keepers. They never saw it again. Ryder never saw joy in his father’s eyes again, either.

The dealer had taken out the first ring in the case. There was no need to select the one that gave him the feeling his father had felt, certain and jubilant. After all, Celia would not be putting this ring excitedly on her finger when he proposed. Engagement rings had been stolen by the Powers of the Keep, bought now to give to brides only to be surrendered at the culmination of their wedding ceremony. Along with the memories it would cost.

Currency of consciousness, they called it. The exchange of memories for goods, services - life. Cruel and calculated, the system perfectly encompassed the essence of the inhumanity that was life in Mallowkeep ever since the uprising. Ryder knew nothing different, and even if he had his memory of it had long been ceded to obtain a loaf of bread or copper pot. You learn quickly what you actually want when you have to surrender a part of yourself to obtain it. And Ryder knew he really wanted Celia.

The scanner had been placed over Ryder’s head while he was lost in thought, but he very much doubted the diamond merchant had asked for consent. A process everyone in Mallowkeep was now familiar with, they called it culling. The devices scoured the contents of one’s memories, valued them and selected ones that met the criteria for the worth required. Memory of brushing your teeth? Give it up for a postal stamp. Your first kiss? Could probably get you a designer ski jacket. More significant, the more it made your heart soar or your palms sweat, the more power it held and thus the greater the value.

The familiar buzzing sounded, telling him the apparatus had made its selection. He felt the heavy weight being removed from his head, and he stepped to the side to see what his price would be. The dealer connected the device and Ryder looked in front of him to see what memory scene he would know for the last time before he surrendered it. He had been bracing himself, knowing that to meet the cost of the ring the significance of the memory would have to be one of the highest he possessed.

Slowly, the image came into focus in the empty space in front of him. But rather than an active scene, it was a still image. One of the most familiar Ryder had ever know. His mother.

“What is this?” Ryder stammered? “Which memory of her? Is the device stalled, why isn’t it continuing to play out?”

“It is not a single memory, sir,” the vendor said coolly, “It appears that you do not have any single memories of enough value to meet the cost of engagement. If you want the ring, it has determined that you will have to surrender a category of memories, everything that relates to a certain emotional recollection. Any memory, it would seem, of her.”

Ryder stumbled backwards a step, too stunned to speak. It felt like a sick joke, but he knew better than to think that anything about the Power of the Keep was a farce. People in pain were people under control, and everything about the currency of consciousness was designed with pain in mind. In order to obtain a future with the woman he loved, Ryder would have to relinquish the very memory of the first woman he ever loved. Every embrace, every kind word, every story- as if they had never happened. Losing her when he was ten, Ryder had gotten through on the memories of love and laughter, knowing that because she had loved him, somehow, he mattered. This was the price for his future. Everything good about his past.

Would he even be the same without it?

The door to the shop opened behind him. Someone else entering to make the same exchange, just with different stakes. “Shall I finalize the exchange, sir?” the merchant asked Ryder, clearly impatient to get the process finalized so as to move on to the next consignment.

Ryder picked up the proffered pen, and made his selection that would forever seal his fate.

“Finding a way into tricky situations has never been a problem for me - although I still haven’t learned the art of getting out of them,” Colin gibed over his shoulder as he finished jimmying the lock open with the credit card - probably his father’s. The gate swung open and Colin swept his arm forward, making quite the show of displaying the path towards the private dock behind it.

Clara felt a hesitation in the tips of her toes, knowing deep down that stepping over that threshold would likely lead to nothing positive for her life in the long run. Colin ran his hands through his hair, flowy chestnut locks that would hang in his ocean blue eyes in just the right way. Clara was not used to getting attention from guys who had the kind of looks that made people stop and take notice, but she did not want to give him a reason to let those eyes look elsewhere. She left the hesitation behind and stepped through the gate.

Colin secured the gate behind them and as it shut, Clara heard the distinctive click of the lock reengaging. Her alarm must have registered on her face because Colin whispered as if in explanation, “If we don’t lock it back up, someone will notice and call security.”

“Will we be able to get back out, though? You can’t reach the lock from this side in order to pick it again.”

“That’s a later problem,” Colin answered with a wink, “We will figure something out.”

“Didn’t you just say you are still learning the art of getting out of these tricky situations?” Clara countered hesitantly, but Colin was already making his way down the path towards the water. She half hoped he hadn’t heard her question, not wanting to do anything to jeopardize the situation she found herself in as if she were a falconer with the wild bird she had always dreamed of interacting with finally on her arm and one wrong word - one wrong breath - would not only scare him away but leave her hurting. She just didn’t yet know how accurate that fear of pain would turn out to be.

She had caught up to him as they reached the end of the dock next to what was not quite a yacht but certainly was far too spectacular to simply be described as a boat. “Serenity” was emblazoned across the side just above the waterline in elegant gold lettering and Clara wondered who had picked the name and what serene days they had been envisioning when they selected it. She was absolutely certain having the boat stolen by two teenagers looking for a joy ride in more way than one had been a part of those dreams and plans.

Colin was already aboard the vessel and once again holding out his hand, this time waiting for her to take it in her own. He pulled her aboard, but didn’t let go. The tingling feeling in her toes came back, but this time it was not filled with hesitation but anticipation.

Becky took one last look in the mirror. Satisfied wouldn’t be the right word, exactly, but she was content enough with the work she had achieved with her various creams, colors and brushes to turn off the lights surrounding her reflection and leave the bathroom. She tripped over the door jam as she stumbled into her black flats, pulling a blazer over the shoulders of her Anne Taylor dress, bought on sale at the Loft. She kicked the wet towels out of the way, took one last bite out of her bagel and scurried out the door.

The time was 7:13. Her interview was scheduled for 8am across the city. She had plenty of time to catch her train, walk the three blocks to the office building and even have some time to spare to gather herself before the start of the interview. She had been looking for work for over six months, making ends meet in the mean time through small contracting gigs and pity babysitting and house sitting gigs from friends. This opportunity could finally put an end to all of that bullshit, giving her a chance to not only finally move into her own place but also be able to get a car, start saying yes to trips with her sisters and dinners with friends. She took a deep breath, smiling to herself at the though of financial freedom and stability. All she had to do was put her best foot forward.

As she thought this to herself, she literally put her foot forward off the curb to cross the street to the metro station. She was looking to her right and did not notice the biker careening around the corner to her left until her foot was already under his tire and her carefully selected black flats were suddenly filling with blood and pain.

She didn’t realize she was crying out until the man was next to her. She was barely aware of him literally sweeping her off her feet until she noticed the cab he had hailed. She heard him give the cabbie the name of a hospital and she suddenly realized what was happening.

“No, please, thank you. But I need to go to Goliath Creative on the west side. Please.”

Hearing the name of the business, the man startled. “No, wait, what? Why? Your foot could be broken, and I’m not sure what they can do for that but you absolutely need to be seen by a doctor.”

“I appreciate your concern, sir, but I have a meeting that I really can not miss. I will be just as injured in a few hours as I am now.” Turning to the cabbie, I repeated the address and he began driving. I raised my toes to try and stop the bleeding. It did not work. She took a deep breath and pulled out her notes ahead of the interview. She turned to the staff bios to make sure she didn’t mistake any names.