I was a fan of hers back in the day," the guy added. I nodded at the two of them and the third person stared at me. "Okay. Are you in?" "Um, sure." What did I have to lose? The only thing that made me hesitate was her tone when she said my name: _my_ name. Like, there was only one. That was a weird concept for me. I mean, it was just a name, right? But there had been no one named Alyssa before. My name wasn't on anybody else's list, either. Maybe it would give her _my_ name some sort of power if she called me it, like, "Hey, baby! Your new dad's name is Alyssa! He's already here." Except I knew how that went: the woman would be gone before he ever got there. "Well?" she said. I shrugged. "All right." It was amazing how easy it was to talk myself into something that, a month ago, I wouldn't have been able to wrap my mind around. It was strange. But I suppose that everything was a little bit different now, huh? ### TWO When I was about fourteen or so, back when my mother still thought I was her baby, I'd done something very brave, I think. I'd gone in the basement, to one of the unlit cellars, and hidden. I'd crept down to the musty, cold depths and hid there for a while, cupped in some of the darkness. If someone was hunting for me, they never found me. _You're not being hunted,_ I told myself. _I'm just having fun with this. See how brave you are. See what you can endure._ I'd waited until I heard footsteps come to the doorway and then stood up and waved at them. I'd just wanted to see what would happen if I hid. It was only now that I thought about it, I realized it was a stupid thing to do, too. _So you're scared of something you can't see? It's just me down here. I'm not trying to hurt you. I just want to see if you can find me._ I shook my head as I stood up from the table and placed the tip of my finger into the door handle. "You'll see, then." It was hard to walk when I was carrying something heavy. You know how people will say, "I'm not heavy—you're just holding me with all of your strength?" It's true, when you carry something with weight, it makes it hard to move quickly. But it wasn't just that. It was what I was carrying, too. I'd never been in here before. So it took a while to find it, the way I was used to, the way I would know where to go if I needed a bathroom or a place to sleep or where the money was. It took me a while to remember my way. I was so used to going into the basement when my mother would call me from the bedroom where I was supposed to be doing my homework. It felt so much bigger than it was supposed to be, and it took me a minute to get my bearings. I saw the stairs to my left, and the door in the corner to my right. But beyond that was a dark, cavernous nothingness. I knew that they had plans to build in here eventually, but I hadn't thought about how big it was. My mother's basement was small, but this looked like a warehouse. I felt like I was in a cave. When I came up behind him, he saw me and his eyes went wide. He was sitting on the ground, legs crossed, and he looked like he was reading the dictionary. I thought he was staring at me, but he wasn't. "Are you taking a reading or something?" "Nah," he said, and he finally looked up. "I'm just . . ." He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit he had. "Are you?" He nodded at me, and I shrugged and went on with my business. "We're going to have a good time, you and I. You'll see." He looked at me with his chin in his hands. "Do I know you?" I didn't like that look. It was my mother's look. "I think it's time to take a break, Mr. B. We can get back to this later." His eyes filled with tears. I smiled at him, leaned over, and handed him his glass. "What is your problem?" he said. "You seem like you have nothing better to do than to bother an old man who just wants to—" "All right, all right," I told him. I wiped my hands on my jacket. "It's only me and you. It's fine." He looked at me, all hurt and indignant, and I shook my head. "All right, all right," I said again. I was quiet for a moment, feeling the chill in the room, looking up at the ceiling. "I just want to tell you, I won't be back." "Then where are you going?" "Anywhere." "What about us?" "I think it's over," I said. "What?" "You'll see," I said. I didn't know how to explain myself anymore. "Look, is that all you need?" I shook my head. "Not even close." I walked across the room. My mind was moving faster than my legs, and I felt a little light-headed. I stepped over to the stairs and started climbing them, slowly, feeling the wood against the soles of my feet, feeling the coldness of it as I went. When I reached the top, I glanced back down the stairs at Mr. B., who was still sitting there, on the ground, under the lamp he'd left on, reading a book with an orange spine and the word BOOKS stamped on it. I gave him a nod and smiled a little. "What about _me_?" he said as I began to make my way up the hill. "It's all right," I said. "Everything will be all right." I looked back down the hill and thought about how far away from everything I was. This wasn't a bad place, really. There were lots of trees, and the houses here had big yards. Nobody cared about you. But then my stomach started turning. The farther away from my old life I got, the more nervous I felt. And it wasn't because I was running away; it was more like I was taking the trash out to a new place and leaving it there. What if it rained on it? What if it got caught up in the storm drain? I didn't even want to think about it. The idea of going out into a world where I'd be alone, though, with nobody around to see me—that I didn't like. But I didn't have to worry about anyone finding me here. I felt as if I had the power to disappear in an instant. If you want to run away, do it from a place where nobody can see you or know where you are. If I was at home and went outside, all anyone would be able to see was the back of my head. But here, I was hiding my face in plain sight, moving around and out of sight at any time. I thought about how they'd find my prints, though, from the day before—those bare, sandy footprints in the grass outside. I couldn't explain them away, or at least I hadn't managed to yet, even though I thought I was very clever when I did it, walking in the grass while they searched for my mother. But I knew she'd done a terrible thing to me, and it felt so good to be moving, it was hard to feel bad about it. I had a couple of beers left, and I looked around at the cool, beautiful day, remembering my old apartment. I didn't see a bar where I used to live, but that didn't mean anything. There were always places like that—where they didn't care if they had to stop selling you alcohol or not. I kept thinking about that day, too, how it was just me and a couple of cops. I knew what was going on with them, but I couldn't really feel what was going on inside me. I knew I was going to miss her when I heard the sirens and saw her standing on the stairs, hands clenched in front of her, looking like she was going to cry. I knew that all of this, too—it was my mother's doing. But I didn't really know what it all meant. There was no connection, no _click_ to it. And I still felt like I was missing something, even though I didn't know what it was. I wondered if it was what that woman had said earlier: that if I was in danger, my mother wouldn't be either. _Well, that's not true,_ I thought, even as I realized I couldn't say it out loud. To talk about her would just be a confirmation of what had happened to me, and if that was the case, then why would