4

Radu taught Krav Maga and systema at a rundown gym a block from the community college you attended. His boyfriend–twenty years older, a polite gray-haired gentleman with bland contempt for police as individuals and as a concept—sold fake IDs and, you think, ran drugs for Ukrainian mobsters. They were both great cooks, too, though you can't remember what food tastes like anymore.

Radu's number is still in your phone, so you give him a call. Nothing. You have his boyfriend's number in there, too—again, no answer. The calls don't even go to voice mail. Knowing your luck, they probably both got deported, or killed.

Speaking of getting killed…you can't wait here any longer. You grab the satchel with your deliveries and head away from the highway, looking for anything that might save you from destruction: an old mine shaft, an abandoned shack, anything.

The stars to the east are gone, replaced by a blue-purple haze. It's 6:30 a.m. You remember the last time you saw the sun. You were so focused in those days. Life was so clear. You knew what you were going to become. And then…

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