Hands fell on her shoulders, and unfamiliar lips brushed her ears. “You should really chill. Come on, we know a place.”
Her joints turned to rusted metal as they began to pull her down the sidewalk.
Someone shouted nearby. “Hey!”
It was a regular cop on the other side of the street. He said something into his radio that she couldn’t hear, but the cyborgs cursed and shared a look before releasing her.
Their boots pounded against the pavement, and a few moments later, a hovercraft barreled past overhead with blaring sirens and flashing blue lights. She stood frozen in place, paralyzed by fear.
“Miss?”
She jumped as someone touched her shoulder.
The officer held his hands up in peace. “You okay?”
“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “I… yes.”
“I need to take a statement,” he said, pulling out his holotab.
She was barely aware of his questions or her answers. When they finished, she walked on wooden legs toward the closest place with a public restroom—a Chinese restaurant with a little waving neon cat on the sign.
She walked right past the confused hostess, slipping into their bathroom and locking the door. At the sink, she washed her hands once, twice, a third time. She splashed soap and water over the ear that had been contaminated, then washed her whole face and neck for good measure.
Ice-cold water slid in rivulets down beneath her clothes, soaking the edge of her bra. She stared at her pinkened face in the mirror, then ducked her head and washed it again.
She heard her breath coming faster and faster, until her head spun from the extra oxygen. She began to cry softly as she shook.
She wanted to curl up on the floor and sob, but she couldn’t—the floor was covered in germs. Everything, always, was covered in germs. Instead, she squatted down on her heels and doubled over as she wept, hugging her arms around her chest.
She wanted to call Logan, to beg him to come get her, but maybe they were past that now.
Logan was the only man she’d met who hadn’t eventually grown tired of her mental illness. Sometimes people didn’t mind it at the start—though more often, they found her to be rude or strange—but ultimately, everyone burned out on her in time. Usually, the first time she had a bad episode in front of them, or even worse, a meltdown.
The first time she’d had a meltdown in front of Logan, she’d been laid off from her previous job working with pharmaceuticals. She had loved that job, and it had been a gut-punch to be let go without any preamble. She’d gone home and tried to make dinner like usual, but her OCD had spiraled in response to her stress.
Logan had come home to find her crying on the ground, the sink running as the chicken burned to charcoal in the pan, unable to stop washing her hands because she was convinced everything she touched was cross-contaminated.
She’d thought he would leave her then, but he’d brought her meds to her and watched her take them, then helped her into the shower so she could break the cycle of panic.
He’d never asked for much from her. To come out with him and his friends, help out around the house, and pick up some of the bills. Small things compared to the strain her erratic mental health must put on him. Now, he was asking for something he claimed he couldn’t go without.
Why did it have to bethis?
She wasn’t sure why she was crying anymore. It was all one amorphous blob of self-pity.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Just a minute,” she croaked, wiping her face with her shirt.
With shaking hands, she called the person she’d been avoiding.
“Finally, you deign to call me back,” her mother said hotly. “I could have been in the hospital, you know.”
“Mom?” she said in a wavering voice.
Her mother was silent for a moment. “What’s wrong?”
She told her everything, though she couldn’t help softening Logan’s words and actions.
