I separated out five hundred for expenses and added the rest to my go-bag. The black backpack sat by the door like a faithful dog, always ready. Inside: eight thousand dollars in mixed bills, nothing larger than a fifty. The fake ID that said I was Amanda Smith, a name so boring it was invisible. Three changes of clothes—dark, forgettable, layered for warmth. A folder of forged medical credentials good enough to get me work in any emergency room that didn't check too carefully.
I tested the bag's weight, adjusted the straps. Forty-five seconds to the alley through the back door. Fifty-three seconds to the roof through the crawlspace I'd discovered my second week here. Ninety seconds to the subway entrance if I ran. I'd timed it all, practiced in the dark, memorized every obstacle.
The shower was cold to keep me alert. I stood under the stream, washing off the smell of blood and disinfectant and other people's desperation. My hands were raw from the bleach, cracked and bleeding at the knuckles. I'd had beautiful hands once. Surgeon's hands, Dr. Morrison had said. Now they looked like they belonged to someone who'd been buried and dug themselves out.
Every sound made my heart spike. The building settling—could be footsteps. A car door slamming—could be them arriving. Someone laughing on the street—could be the last sound before they kicked in my door.
I should sleep. But I knew I wouldn’t. So instead, I went out.
ThefourblockstoZi's Corner Bodega might as well have been four miles. Every doorway could hide someone waiting. Every parked car could contain surveillance. Every face that glanced my way could be memorizing my features for a report that would end with me in a dumpster behind a warehouse.
I needed supplies, and Mrs. Zi's grandson Frank was my only reliable source. So I walked with my hands in my pockets—one wrapped around pepper spray, the other around the folding knife I'd started carrying—and kept my head down just enough to avoid attention but not so much that I couldn't see threats coming.
The bodega's bell chimed when I pushed through the door, and the smell hit me immediately: five-spice and old coffee and the particular dusty sweetness of corner stores that had been there since the neighborhood was young. Mrs. Zi stood behind the counter, counting change for a customer, but her face lit up when she saw me.
"Ah, Dr. Maya! You look so thin. When did you eat last?"
The question caught me off-guard. I opened my mouth to say yesterday, then realized I couldn't actually remember. There'd been a protein bar at some point. Maybe Tuesday? But today was Thursday. Wasn't it?
"I'm fine, Mrs. Zi. Just here for coffee."
But she was already moving, her weathered hands reaching for the pot of congee she kept warm behind the counter. "You're not fine. You're disappearing. Look at your wrists—like bird bones."
I pulled my sleeves down to cover the too-prominent bones she'd noticed. "Really, I don't need—"
"Nonsense." She ladled the rice porridge into a container with the efficiency of someone who'd been feeding people for longer than I'd been alive. A tea egg followed, dark and marbled from its soy sauce bath. Pickled vegetables that would add salt and sourness to cut through the richness. "You helped my nephew's friend last month. The boy with the broken arm. His mother cried when she saw him walking without pain. This is thank you."
My entire body went rigid. That boy—seventeen, radius fracture, clean break—had been an exception. His mother had sobbed so desperately in Mrs. Zi's store that I'd broken my own rule about treating anyone who might be traced back to me. Now it was a debt, a connection, a thread that could be pulled until everything unraveled.
"I need to pay." I pulled out a twenty, holding it between us like a shield. "Please. I insist."
Something in my voice must have warned her off because Mrs. Zi's face fell. She took the money with the careful movements of someone approaching a wounded animal, understanding that kindness could be its own kind of threat to someone like me.
The bell chimed again. Frank walked in carrying two boxes with the medical supply company logo partially covered by black marker. Twenty-three years old, second year pre-med at Brooklyn College, smart enough to get into medical school but not smart enough to realize that stealing supplies for me was a felony that would end his career before it started.
"Dr. Cross." He set the boxes on the counter, then really looked at me. His eyes fixed on my cheek, and I remembered thebruise—purple-green now, three days old from a patient’s errant fist as they’d thrashed underneath me. It was an accident, but it still hurt like hell.
"You have a bruise on your cheek." His voice went soft, concerned, the way young men's voices did when they thought they could save someone. "Are you . . . is someone hurting you? Because if you need help—"
"I tripped." The words came out sharp enough to cut. "I'm fine. This is a business transaction, Frank. Not a friendship. Not a counseling session. You bring me supplies, I pay you, we don't talk about anything else. Understood?"
He flinched like I'd slapped him. Behind him, Mrs. Zi made a small, sad sound.
"Understood," Frank said quietly. He looked at his grandmother, then back at me. "Two hundred for both boxes. Same as always."
I counted out the bills, exact change, and slid them across the counter without our fingers touching. Picked up the boxes, balancing them against my hip. The congee container was warm against my arm, the first warm thing I'd felt in days.
"Thank you for the food, Mrs. Zi. Thank you for the supplies, Frank."
Formal. Distant. Professional. The way it had to be.
I left them standing there, grandmother and grandson united in their concern for someone who wouldn't let them care. The bell chimed my exit, a cheerful sound that felt like mockery.
Behind me, I heard Mrs. Zi's voice, soft and sad: "That girl is running from something. And she's so afraid, she won't let anyone catch her—even people who want to help."
Frank responded, but I was already too far away to hear, walking fast with my supplies and my congee and my isolation wrapped around me like armor. Mrs. Zi was wrong about one thing, though. I wasn't running from something.
I wasn’t running from something.
