52
I’m sure that the woman with the heavy-duty braid and the Purse of Doom thinks my crates are pretty isolated. The over-bright pools of light cast by the widely spaced pole lamps make the surrounding night feel even darker and cast her capering shadow across abandoned boxcars and the rickety gantry. Behind me, the heaped waste dirt separating the service yard from the prisons is as black as an investment banker’s soul and nearly as impenetrable. If she claims my spot, she’ll be nearly invisible.
She can’t see me, so I must have a good spot.
My pulse thrums and air rattles through my chest too quickly.
I hate it when I’m predictable. Predictability is death.
The crunch of her steps on gravel blends into the chorus of August crickets. I feel a ridiculous urge to wait until she’s close
