Fiona:
My hands gripped the steering wheel. The speedometer needle hovered at thirty-five in a forty-five zone because I could not trust myself to drive faster. Not when my vision kept blurring. Not when every breath felt like swallowing broken glass.
The road stretched ahead of me. Three gas stations had passed on my right. A McDonald's. A tire shop with a hand-painted sign advertising cheap oil changes. Normal places where normal people went about their normal lives. People who existed in government databases and credit reports and voter registrations.
I was legally dead.
I pulled over at a gas station and checked my wallet with shaking fingers. Two hundred and thirty-seven dollars. That was what remained from the three hundred Dad had given me this morning for work clothes, after I
