I’m the last rider.

For ten minutes I’ve been the only passenger. The driver glancing at me in his rear view mirror after we’ve stopped at a bustling souvenir store, fish taco stand, and state park entrance and I didn't disembark. Each time the lines of confusion grow deeper on his tanned forehead.

He watches me again. “Last stop miss. This is the end of the route. Done for the day.”

I smile. Trying to act confident. Like this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. Exactly what I want. “Yes, thank you. I’m here.”

Wide eyes meet mine. Here is a parking lot, with an explosion of sherbet metal. Rows of pink, orange, and green shuttles glistening in the dissolving sun.

He seems nice. Wears a thick gold band on his gnarled ring finger. Pictures of a small boy, with missing teeth wearing a blue cap and crookedly holding a gold diploma, taped to his sun visor. Old enough to be my grandfather. Wise enough to know I probably shouldn’t be left alone in this industrial park.

“You sure?”

No. “Yes, thank you. I’m going to…”

Where? I look around. Desolate warehouses and a boarded up factory surround us. No other people or cars, except the other drivers parking their streetcars and heading into the office right outside the chain link fence.

Wariness fills his expression as much as mine. Neither of us sure the crazy level of the other. Although I don’t know much, I have no doubt I totally win that competition. I better go before he gets in trouble. “Thanks! Have a good evening.”

The eye roll and deep sigh confirms he doesn’t buy the chipper tone I attempt. He points past the crumbling brick sign squatting in front of a long closed storage unit facility.

“There’s a library two blocks that way. They hold the town council meetings there on Sunday evenings and stay open until six pm. You could go there…” His voice softens with sympathy that burns my eyes with grateful tears. “…until you figure out where you need to be.”

Which may be never. “Great! That’s where I was heading anyway.”

He nods. Accepting the assertion we both know is a lie. Relieving some of his guilt that he’s at least set me on a less dangerous path than wandering alone. Not likely to encounter serial killers and rapists in a building full of responsible citizens. Unaware, though that damage has already been done.

I smile. He deserves to go home to his family knowing he did all he could do. I’m not his problem.

Hopping down, I force myself not to look back. Lest I run back too. Plead with him to take me home to his warm, safe house and eat lasagna and cookies and watch ballgames until I fall asleep on the sofa.

Maybe that was my old life but I’m not sure what happened to it or how to get it back. So I walk. Faster when I see the lighted building. A stone refuge amidst the dark office buildings towering on each side. I’ve got a little more than an hour to figure out where I go next.

Grateful to be in a place where wandering around isn’t odd or conspicuous. With a few magazines in my hand that I select from the stand near the entrance, I settle in a desolate back corner. Slink down in an overstuffed chair and close my eyes. Not trying too hard; just letting whatever thoughts that may exist come into my mind.

Cool air blows on my legs. A dull hum from the fluorescent lights. The scent of cotton candy perfume from the lady shelving books.

Cat Wire.

Nothing.

Michael Wire.

Nothing.

Vacation. Wedding. House.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

No names. No faces. No memories.

Just blank.

I can’t stop the tears. I may be free, but still lost as ever. The librarian glances over. Pushing her now empty cart in my direction. Not a friendly face like the sales lady or shuttle driver. Stirring the attention to myself I didn't want. I hop up and race to the restroom. Locking myself in the last stall, I dab the rough tissue against my cheeks. Crying won't help. Not sure what actually will, but definitely not feeling sorry for myself. Or giving into the panic swelling inside me.

“I told her I wanted off on Monday." A muffled woman's voice floats through the air from far away. "But then she posted the schedule, and I’m on it. Now I have to call her. You know how much I hate talking to her.”

A rumbling creak echoes across the open space and then blackness engulfs me. I gasp but no one is here to hear me.

“She’ll probably make me work every weekend since she’ll be pissed about having to find a replacement. But I don’t care. I…”

The complaints fade away, and I feel for the lock. Gingerly stepping toward the door. Another screech from the hinges as I yank down the knob.

Darkness shrouds the entire floor. Lit only by the orange streaks of the fading sun cascading through the windows lining the front wall. I run past the unoccupied check-out desk to the front doors and shove against the handles. They don't budge. The red light blinking on the keypad under the adjacent bulletin board validates my assumption. Alarm is set too.

I'm locked in.

I should be terrified. Embarrassed for being so obtuse to the signs the library was closing. Confused as to why there isn't a meeting tonight like the trolley driver said. Instead, I'm soaring with relief.

Michael's locked out.

I'm alone until at least ten tomorrow morning, according to the operating hours etched on the glass. He can't get to me. Or hit me. Or yell at me. Or hurt me. For seventeen entire hours. I'm finally safe.

* * *

I hang the sweater back on the chair. Straightening the sleeves as if the navy cardigan never left its spot draped across the seat to help keep me warm in the middle of the night. I fluff the sofa cushions, straighten the scissors, return the broom to the hook, and throw away the plastic wrapper from my cheese crackers.

Guilt churns in my rumbling stomach from eating food that doesn't belong to me. I make another mental promise to replace the snack when I go to the store today. I have to spend as little as possible, but I refuse to be a thief.

Looking around the small break room, everything looks in order. Nothing disturbed or disrupted from my impromptu sleep over. No one ever able to tell I've been here. Satisfied with my cleaning, I return to the ladies room. Fumbling in the dark to sit in the last stall again.

Needing so much luck to pull this off. Hopeful that I can sneak out once other patrons start to fill the sofas and research tables. Praying that different employees staff the weekday hours.

I stroke the baby fine hairs on my newly uncovered neck. Feeling so light with the weight of my curls gone. My dress may be the same but with my homemade pixie cut there's still a chance I won't be remembered from yesterday.

No voices this time when the lights blink on. Just two brief moans of the door opening and closing in quick succession. I fight the urge to tiptoe out and run for it. I have to follow the plan.

Minutes that feel like hours pass before heels click on the tile, tapping louder than the soft groan. Once her black pumps stop in the stall next to me, I venture out. With a quick wash of my hands, I stride through the hall, out the front entrance, and down the wide steps. I don't run or glance back. Nothing to garner suspicion. Just one step after the other. Mile after mile until I reach the strip mall I found searching the city map last night.

I stick to my schedule. T-shirts, shorts, bras, and panties at the clothing store. Backpack, socks, and running shoes in the athletic department. He'll have to catch me if he wants me.

Shampoo, deodorant, soap, and toothbrush in the pharmacy. Deviating from my plan only long enough to brush my teeth in the store bathroom. After two days, I just couldn't wait any longer.

Food next, to satisfy my growling belly and repay my debt. I slow on the sidewalk, passing by colorful rows of images lining the windows of the shop beside the small market. Leafy flowers, entwined hearts, and smiley faces contrast with the flaming skulls, teeth baring tigers, and bloodied daggers. But I can't stop staring at a simple black and silver symbol. Wishing so hard I could remember what the sign means to me.

"We open in thirty minutes, and I can do that for you."

I jerk from the voice behind me. So engrossed in my contemplation, I never saw her come outside. Simultaneously winking and lighting the cigarette between her pierced lips as she reclines against the bench. Her purple hair accented with red tips, rustles in the breeze, setting off the intricate work covering every bit of her exposed skin except her face. "No, but thank you."

A slow nod. With her talent, she probably doesn't have to beg for customers. Even though if she pushed hard enough I would be swayed to let her ink me. Which is dumb because I only have five hundred and sixteen dollars left. Which is probably not like me at all because the only markings I have on me are from Michael. "I better go."

I point to the grocery like a moron. She doesn't care where I go or what I do.

But I can't stop thinking about the character. As I grab boxes of granola bars, bananas, cheese and crackers, and a small bottle of milk, I imagine where I would have it done. Only visible to the eyes I want to see it. Right now only seen by mine.

She's gone when I exit with my bags full of basic necessities. I drop down onto the seat where she relaxed before. Eating a bit of breakfast before I transfer my groceries to my knapsack. Still enthralled with the idea of that tattoo on my body.

“You’ve stopped here twice without coming inside, so I’m thinking you’re too scared.”

She smirks, leaning against the door frame. A lighter flipping between her fingers with the skill of a gunslinger.

“I don’t have a lot of money.”

Her long black fingernail points to my hand curling and uncurling the dark yellow peel.

“How about the ring?”

My stomach turns as I shake my head. “It’s bad luck.”

“Luck’s what you make it.”

Impulsive. Foolhardy. Spontaneous. Tomorrow I may regret agreeing. Tomorrow I may not even remember. Tomorrow I may not even be alive. So I'm going to live now. Enjoy this moment. Savor the strange comfort I feel from deciding for myself what marks my skin. More than happy to slide the band off my finger and give her the reminder of everything I've endured. And survived.

“Okay then, let’s get to work.”

Excitement and nervousness swirl in my stomach. She points to a table, and I drop my bag by my feet before climbing on the thick white cushion. A litany of questions and instructions that I don't hear. Somehow I've becoming obsessed. There's nothing I want more than for her to start.

"Where do you want it?"

With a shaking hand I brush over the location. Her eyebrows fly up in surprise, but quickly morph into an approving nod. I've impressed her which makes me proud. I tug off my shirt while she pulls a curtain around us. Creating a little cocoon of privacy. Shutting out the rest of the world. Just me, her, and the buzzing needle.

"I'm Monica, by the way."

Of course, I don't have one to share. I refuse to call myself Cat. That's his name for me, but not who I am. "Hi."

“And your name is...?”

No reason to hide since I've exposed all my other truths once I took off my top. She sees all that I am. With curious eyes that wander over my battered body. Although she refrains from asking me. Maybe she’s seen worse. Maybe she knows the answers to those kinds of questions don’t come easily. Or at all. “I don't know."

"Come on. I don't bite...unless you want me to." She laughs at her old school line. "These are the jokes lady. I'm no comedian."

"I really don't know. I can't remember anything since before yesterday when I woke up with a man who claims to be my husband." I stroke the swelling on my cheek, wincing from the tenderness. "But I think it's a lie."

"What the fuck?"

I guess I have finally shocked her. "Yeah, I know."

With a head shake, she returns to her work. No more comments. Or judgment. Just letting me talk. It feels good to share my burden. To divulge my plight with someone else. Even if it’s impossible to believe me. "I ran away because he..."

I can't bring myself to say the word out loud, and she can't seem to keep going. Looking up, she meets my gaze. Her eyes dark with understanding rather than pity.

"Yeah, I get it. I had a guy who swore he loved me too. Fucking broke my nose twice he loved me so damn much."

Her heartache may be older, yet still burns as raw as mine. "I'm sorry."

"Me too."

I settle back in. My story unfolding while my tattoo takes shape. The sting isn't so bad. Right when the pain gets to be too much, she stops. A mind reader as well as a talented artist. Methodical in her work. Blotting away the blood. Touching up various spots until she's satisfied. Before I even get to see.

Finally, she rolls back on her stool, grabs a mirror, and holds the handle out to me. "What do you think?"

Almost too breathtaking to answer. "I love it."

She grins from my whisper. Pleased that I'm so overcome. "You're welcome."

With my clothes back on, she gives me a few last reminders and a folded up paper. In return, I give her a gentle hug. To protect my tender skin and both of our fragile hearts. “Thank you. I really do love it.”

Her embrace back to me is soft yet genuine. The cool exterior from earlier disarming a bit. “Good. I hope you figure out what it means to you.”

"Me too."

The snap of latex cracks in the small space from her pulling off her gloves. Cleaning up her tray of tools. But she doesn't look at me. "Do you think maybe you should go to the police or something?"

I don't know what I don't know. Maybe I'm wanted. Maybe I'll end up in jail. "I'm too scared to take the chance."

A half-hearted shrug that I take to mean she doesn't agree. "Well, if you need help, I'm always here."

"Thank you."

I trudge back to my hiding place. A much better trek in sneakers than sandals. For my feet anyway. My conscience isn't as agreeable. Well aware how wrong it is to stay there again. One more night, and I’ll go to a hotel. Figure out how to get a job without any identification or phone number or address. How to start a new life from nothing.

No one glances my way as I enter, and I walk straight to one of the available computers. Just another patron accessing the free internet. Searching the local career sites. Trying not to get daunted by the requirements for skills. Degrees. References.

My spirits raise for an ad touting sandwich board walkers. Pays cash. Ten dollars an hour. No experience required. Perfect.

Murmurs of uncertainty bubble around me from the other visitors. Two sheriffs deep in conversation with a woman whose name tag reads Mrs. Fontaine. Heat flames through me when she points in my direction. The fire explodes to an inferno when they stride toward me.

The short one with a buzz cut steps closest. “What’s your name, miss?”

Same question as before. Same answer as always. “I don’t know.”

His head tilts, and he exchanges glances with his partner. Skeptical. Thinks I’m running some kind of game on him.

“I’m going to need to see your ID.”

“I don’t have any.”

“We received a report of a woman spending the night in the library last night matching your description." Stubby fingers brush over his smooth head. "Well, the new version of you after your long hair was found in the trashcan."

I keep my hands in my lap. Resisting the urge to stroke my own bare neck. Fighting the urge to weep with all the other customers witnessing my shame.

A nod from the other officer. His messy bangs flopping over his forehead. "You know trespassing, criminal mischief, and theft are serious offenses."

"I didn't hurt anything." No sense denying my crimes. At least I can make amends. I gesture to my backpack. "I bought food to replace what I ate."

"Can I look inside?"

Not sure if I really have any choice, so I nod. "Yes."

He rifles through my meager belongings. Lifting out the pint of milk and a pink bra before stuffing them back inside. Unbuckles the front pocket and slides out my remaining money. My stomach churns from him clutching my only hope.

"Where'd you get the cash?"

"I found it in my dress pocket. I don't know where it came from."

Taller deputy squats down. Studying my battered face. His gaze drifting over my ravished arm. "Did someone hurt you?"

The sympathy in his voice sounds sincere. They've both been direct but not unkind. Maybe Monica is right. Maybe I should trust them. "Yes."

"Okay. Then I think it's time for us to get you some help."

Uncertain what help actually means, my heart pounds harder. "Am I going to jail?"

He gives me an encouraging smile. "No we're going to take you to the hospital. Get you checked out and see what they can do for you."

"Okay."

Hopefully, they can do something. As long as I don't have to see Michael I'll do anything they want.