“I’m sorry—”

He cut me off, sounding bored. “License and registration, please.”

I bit down on the inside of my cheek and rifled around in the glove compartment for the registration, then retrieved my license from my wallet. I handed them over, then stared at the odometer, willing myself not to cry again. It wasn’t working, and the officer didn’t seem like he was all that interested in doing anything but writing a ticket.

He frowned as he inspected my license. “Says here you’re from Arden Hills, Minnesota. Seems like you’re quite a ways from home, Miss Page.”

“I moved here for school.”

“You want to tell me why you ran that light back there?” He inclined his head in the direction of the intersection I failed to stop at.

“I-I was distracted. There was an accident on the freeway and I had to get off. I made a wrong turn and I don’t know this area.”

He was cold, remote. Like he heard versions of the same story a thousand times and it no longer affected him. I wondered how long it took for that to happen, for empathy to dissolve into disdain over human error. Not very long, I imagined. A flicker of something like recognition flashed across his face as he looked from me to my license and back again.

“Wait here, please.”

He left with my personal information in hand. The sun disappeared behind the houses as I waited. Under different circumstances the flashing light of the police car would have been embarrassing, but for now I was grateful. Being stranded in a place like this, where the windows of the house to my right were taped with plastic and the screen door was hanging by one hinge, made me nervous.

It was a long time before he returned. When he did, his demeanor had changed. Gone was the detached coldness. Instead he spoke with an air of familiar apology. “You’ve had a difficult year, Miss Page.”

“Wh-what—” I stopped. I was well acquainted with pity.

“I recognized the name. When tragedy strikes a small community close by, people in my line of work tend to hear about it.” He handed me my license and registration. “You’ll need to get that changed to your new address. You know where to do that?”

I nodded and slipped them into my purse. “Thank you, Officer. I’ll take care of it first thing in the morning.” I waited for a ticket for running the light, but it never came.

He propped an arm on the doorframe and leaned in. “You really shouldn’t be driving out here alone. This is a rough part of town. You know how to get home from here?”

I’d only learned the routes from my apartment to Northwestern and to the closest grocery store. Embarrassed, I told him as much. He offered to escort me to familiar surroundings. After I gave him the address to Serendipity, he got back in his car and led the way home.

The motion sensor kicked on as I pulled into the driveway behind the store, bathing the area in soft light. As I turned off the engine and got out of the car, so did my escort. He had that typical cop look: clean-cut, short hair, broad shoulders, and thick arms. He was sporting a five o’clock shadow, and his face was all harsh angles. Nine months ago his presence might have soothed. Now it was hard to see anything in that uniform but a reminder of the accident. There had been so many questions after the crash. I’d never had any answers worth giving, only horrifying memories.

“Are you okay from here?” He rested his palm on the butt of his gun while he took stock of his surroundings.

“I’m fine. Thank you for being—” My voice cracked. “Thank you.”

“You take care of yourself, Miss Page.” He handed me a business card.

It had the Chicago police force emblem on it. Below were his name, badge number, and direct line at the precinct. “Thank you, Officer Cross. I promise I’ll be more careful.”

A call crackled through his radio, and he made a hasty departure. I unlocked the door and climbed the stairs leading to my apartment. It was late, and I was tired. The thought of food made my stomach turn even though I hadn’t eaten anything since morning. There were essays to mark for the class I taught and a thesis to work on, but fatigue dragged me down. The day had been taxing from the start, and I felt wasted. A specter of my former self, lost in a sea of waning numbness. The emotions I thought I had buried in Arden Hills with the people I loved were resurrecting themselves.

At three in the morning I woke for the third time in as many hours. Exhaustion was no match for the siege of nightmares. Some weeks were better than others, but this one had been horrendous. I went to the kitchen and filled a glass with water, unable to erase the lingering images. The sound of footsteps in the hallway outside my apartment made me pause, the glass halfway to my mouth. Setting it on the counter, I tiptoed to the door and peeked through the eyehole. Sarah’s white-blond hair came into view as she rifled around in her oversized bag, mumbling to herself.

“Damn it!” She turned the bag over, dumping the contents onto the floor and dropping to her knees.

I flipped the lock and opened the door.

“Jesus Christ! You scared the shit out of me.” She threw a glare my way.

“Sorry, it sounded like you might need a hand.” I looked at the pile of random items littering the hallway. Among them was a wad of cash secured with a rubber band. Wherever she bartended, it must have been busy to pull in that kind of money midweek.

“I can’t find my keys. I just had them in my hand, and now I can’t find them. I don’t know how that happens. I mean seriously, is there a goddamn key fairy that just up and aways with my shit so I can’t get into my apartment? My feet are killing me and I need a drink. Damn it, I can hear them!”

“Have you tried your jacket pocket?” I pointed to where the sound was coming from.

She shot me a patronizing look. “Of course I—” She patted her pocket and pulled out the key chain.

I helped her stuff the rest of her things back in her duffel-bag-sized purse.

“Sorry I’m being such a bitch. It was a long night.”

“If I got home at three in the morning and couldn’t find my keys, I’d be bitchy, too.”

She unlocked her door and looked me over, assessing my state of wakefulness. “Do you want a beer?”

“Sure, just let me get my keys.” I was wide awake anyway.

I’d been in Sarah’s apartment for a drink once before. The living room contained a mishmash of furniture that didn’t match but seemed to go together anyway. She shed her coat and dropped it on a chair, and her bag followed suit. Deadly-looking stilettos were kicked off and left in the middle of the floor. Sarah groaned and sauntered to the fridge. Grabbing two beers, she popped the tops and handed me one. She curled up in a wicker chair that looked like a nest, giving me the choice between a floral print couch straight out of the ’70s or a beanbag chair. The couch was surprisingly comfy.

“Why are you awake, if you don’t mind me asking?” Sarah asked.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Bad dreams?” she asked, guzzling back half her beer.

“Sometimes.”

Sarah waited for me to elaborate. When I didn’t, she nodded like she understood and moved on. We talked about school and work and how it was difficult to balance them both. Now that the semester was in full swing, Cassie had cut back my shifts so I had enough time to focus on course work and my thesis.

At twenty-four, three years my senior, Sarah was working on her MBA. The cost was astronomical, even with her partial scholarship. Conversation with Sarah was easy; she was funny and exuberant and honest. In many ways she reminded me of friends from my past.

It was five in the morning by the time I wandered back across the hall, still wired and unable to sleep. I paced around my living room, stared at the bookshelves, and pulled down the sketchbook.