She was back in the shadows again. Just like in Luanda. And like the last two years of her life, exhausted and alone. Off the radar. Off the map completely. And now, at sea, she felt herself slipping over the edge of the world into darkness.

She was dark, too, in the stale air of a shipping container, amidst a vague rotting smell. A leftover, perhaps, of what her cube had last contained. But the smell didn’t bother her. It was fitting. She was rotting, too. She could feel it on the inside, in her bones, her marrow putrefying. Her mind was going toxic already with its cocktail of cortisol and repressed memories. A sense of dread. Despite being so close to home, or what she’d last thought was home, she had a lingering sense of it. She’d known for too long the horrors of false hopes, and false securities. False relationships. Tucker. Even the shipping container, a bulk of steel, and the enormous vessel that carried it, felt paper-thin and illusory in the big picture. The big Atlantic, too, helped fuel the feeling of soul-crushing insignificance. At least here, in the open waters, she could be real about it.

She rested her head back flat against the mattress. It was the same hard type that they’d had in the bunk rooms. No blankets. Just antiseptic rubber that made little noises when she tried shifting positions. Sleep would be difficult, even in this state. But then Macy remembered that she wouldn’t be staying in this room long enough for it.

Or would she?

Part of her wanted to stay locked away and separated for the entire length of the journey. They could give her a loaf of bread, slide in a few water bottles. A bucket for a bathroom. And then just leave her the fuck alone. Everyone in the whole world, leaving her alone for good.

Even in the United States, she could remain in isolation.

Maybe hitch a ride on an intermodal freight train headed to the west coast. Though it would hardly matter where she went. Along the way, she could starve and die happily, alone and utterly peaceful. It wouldn’t be a bad way to go out. And at least it would be on her terms, and that of her body. It was up to her own body, and not at the bullet fire of some two-bit assassin.

She imagined they existed in the United States, too. They were probably waiting for her. All of her problems, too, all waiting for her whenever she’d pop back up into reality, when her head would come up for air from the dark and comforting depths of solitude.

But here, in the dark of the shipping container, it was just her and her phone.

She had pulled it out of her pocket, turning it on, the flash of blue light a welcome sight in the dark container. The sun had almost set and whatever light was coming in now was barely perceptible. She used this new light to look around for a better view of what might be her eternal tomb. It was empty, aside from the bed. She was almost reassured about that, not having to see anything or anyone else. She tried keeping certain thoughts out of her mind, like what the container had last carried inside of it. She preferred Chinese washing machines to anything like the hazardous material of DARC Ops’ other shipping container. Her brain was toxic enough.

She went back to her phone, not wanting to think too deeply on the safety or cleanliness of her new home. She had enough driving her slowly insane already. She aimlessly scrolled through some old files. Despite Tansy’s obviously ambitious comments earlier, no internet connection penetrated the walls of the container. She had since gone through and deleted half of all her files, after the hack, just in case. But the memoir still remained. It would be something she would try working on again, when things calmed down. Maybe use it for a later book, if she would ever be safe and sane enough to go through with it. At the very least, it would be an outlet for venting. A psychological release, charted in full: the step-by-step destruction of her life starting with Police Chief Gormley.

Macy skipped to his chapter, the darkest, the slimiest of creatures. But she had become slimy for him, doing horrible deeds to further her career. Ethics had flown out the window after a fit of jealous rage. And fearing for her career, and if she was honest, her life, she went ahead and pushed Tucker away. She’d kept him safe from the chief’s reach, even made the slimeball think he’d won, but at what cost?

There were other things, too. Things she didn’t write about. Those were the events that had been imprinted on her mid, burned in forever like the scars of some deep trauma. The only way out, if Macy even wanted out, was to undo them. And to undo them, and to right them, she would have to survive first.