BY THE TIME the early rays of morning sunlight have undoubtedly fallen on the room Carla has lent me until my front door can be fixed properly, I am already gone. I'm slumped in a corner booth at the very quiet Wallflower Diner, drinking my third cup of coffee and rubbing my temples as if that will aid me in pushing down the guilt that is eating away at me at this very moment. For once, Wallflower Diner isn't quiet merely because of my appearance but instead, it's quiet because it's practically empty. There are only two other people in here other than me. One looks like a businessman, he's sitting at the counter—at the seat I usually sit in and the seat I would have sat in had I not been hiding—with a newspaper folded out in front of him. That was an interesting enough thing to see on its
