My eyes flip open at exactly six a.m. There's no gentle fluttering of the eyes as I slowly pull into consciousness—no; I am sleeping one second and the next, I am wide awake. Awake with an uneasiness in my stomach that tells me that today is not one of the good days. I glance at Roan's bed to find his covers strewn away from his body which is unusual because he's always cold. The air conditioner is off, leaving a deafening silence in the absence of the usual mechanical, obnoxious whirring overhead.

Everything is off, wrong.

I swallow the irrational clump of apprehension in my throat, slip out of bed, and step into the bathroom to get ready for school. It's only when I'm fully dressed for school, scrubbing off an unknown stain from my faded sneakers and checking the time on my phone do I realize something disheartening. 6:37 a.m. Monday, December 3 reads the screen.

It's the first Monday of the month.

My spine steels into a straight line, I drop the wet sponge in my hand and dial Theo's number with a dry hand.

He answers on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Hi, Theo, umm listen. We can't—I'm not going to school today."

"Oh. Okay?"

"No, listen. It's the first Monday of the month. David's having one of his secret meetings today."

A pause on the line.

"You want us, to what, follow him around work?"

My brain starts working faster than I can talk, stringing together ideas, a loose plan. "We don't have to follow him around if we know beforehand where the meeting is. Ezra spoke of his secret meetings once. He'll lead us there—"

"Ezra's not his driver, he's Atlas's."

"How'd you know that? You know what, that's not important. It still slipped out of him which means he knows something. I'll let him drive me to school and once Atlas is gone, he'll tell us."

"You think he'll give it away that easily?"

"No. No, I don't think he will. But it's our only shot."

"Sage, I don't think that's a good idea. Who knows what can happen—"

Two large honks bellow from the street. I rush to the window and peek through the wooden boards to see the sleek back car.

"Ezra's here. We'll talk in school."

I cut off the line and pack my bag with a set of all black clothes, a black scarf, and a pair of cheap glasses before darting down the fire escape, my shoes letting out intrusive bangs on the metal stairs. Wordlessly, I step into the car and shut the door.

Atlas spares me a single glance, Ezra meets my eyes once in the rearview mirror, and the rest of the ride is silent.

I stare at the back of Ezra's head. His hair is a dirty blond in meaning not color; no matter how many times he washes it, it will remain a murky, dark ochre color. I wonder if he has kids, then do his kids share the same hair? The same beady eyes that look at me in the rearview mirror? In my head, I build a life for Ezra. I force myself to imagine his small home, his children, his return to his wife after a long day at work. This way I don't think of the crazy plan I have for today. I can't let the reality of what I'm about to do register, least I realize how lunatic it is and talk myself out of it.

I'm imagining Ezra taking his family to a hot day on the beach, the sun bright in the sky over scorching sand, when we finally pull up in front of the school. I pretend to fidget with my bag, waiting for Atlas to step out without noticing my staying in the car.

A minute passes of my zipping and unzipping my bag after Atlas is gone before a cold gush of air rushes in and the door opens. Theo steps in and gives me a small smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He doesn't like this idea.

Ezra looks back in alarm. "Mr. Roman, what are you doing here?"

"Please don't call me that," Theo mutters, adjusting himself in the seat. He turns to me. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes, I'm sure," I reply quickly. "Ezra, we just want to ask you a quick question and then we'll be gone." I don't give him time to answer and opt for the quickest approach to this—straight and blunt. "Today's the first Monday of the month. We know you know about David's secret meetings. Can you tell us where he's going today?"

Ezra's face is blank for a second as if the words are yet to be registered by his brain. Then his eyes widen and bulge. "You—You want me to tell you where they are?" He laughs a quick, nervous unbelieving sound. "Are you out of your mind?"

My face is impassive: no, I'm not out of my mind.

"Ms. Black," he continues. "This is not a silly game. These are big, dangerous men doing things you can't get caught in. Even if I did know where his meetings are, I wouldn't tell you."

"Ezra, I will do this, whether you tell me or not. Only if you don't tell me when and where the meeting is, I'll have to follow him around all day which means I'll have a bigger chance of being caught. If you tell me—"

"But—"

"If you tell me," my voice raises with urgency over his, "I'll get there before he reaches. I'll be conspicuous, careful. So you decide how this plays out for me."

He turns his gaze to the windshield and lets out a deep, shaky breath.

Theo leans back in his seat with crossed arms, regarding Ezra with watching eyes. "Ezra, do you have kids?"

"Yes," he says quietly. "A little girl, Milly. Sarah is in college."

It's not exactly what I imagined in my head earlier.

"Why are you working for David?" Theo asks.

The answer seems obvious at first—to keep a roof over his head—but then his knuckles tighten over the steering wheel, and I wonder if there is more to it. Ezra knows firsthand the evil behind David. He can work as a chauffeur for anyone and yet, he stays under David's command.

"Mr. David Roman knows that I know too much . . . And I am in debt to him."

I want to ask him about his 'debt' to David, but Theo carries on. "Everything you tell us will help us and your daughters. Protect us and you'll be protecting Milly and Sarah."

Ezra doesn't have to ask how we're going to protect his girls because the answer is obvious: the downfall of David.

He sighs. "719 Edgewood Drive. It's an old factory building, demolished and abandoned. They meet there at nine a.m."

"Who's they?" I ask.

He looks at me with a shake of his head before directing his gaze at Theo. "Mr. Roman, please be careful. These people . . . Just take care."

I feel a flicker of anger lick in my chest. He talks to Theo like I am too unreasonable to talk with. Does he see me as an overexcited little girl that doesn't know what she's doing? I wonder for a minute if that's the reality of who I am and the flicker of anger grows stronger.

I step out of the car and shut the door too harshly, the sound only satisfying me for a second. I feel like a ball of nerves, too coiled up with nerves, anticipation, and frustration. Inhale, I take a deep breath in, exhale. From my peripheral vision, Theo steps out of the car and rounds it to stand next to me. The black car lets out a low purr before driving away.

"I think we should skip first period if we want to get there early," I say. "We should take all precautions."

"I think we should talk about this first."

I hold back a rude exhale. "What is there to talk about? We know the when and where. If we don't act now—"

"Sage, it's not that simple," he cuts me off sternly, brows pulling together like he's straining to make me understand. "This is dangerous. Drugs-and-guns-dangerous."

"Yvonne is catching on to us. I need to do finish what I started because I don't know how much time is left."

"Do you know what Ezra told me when you left the car? He asked me if we had a gun. Just in case 'things went sideways'."

I close my eyes, shutting out his pleas. "Please don't try to talk me out of this."

"I have to," he says in a voice that's increasing in volume, "because if I don't, then no one else will."

"I don't need you to protect me," I snap.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "It's not just you in this. If you go, I have to go and then it's not just you. You keep running blindly into these situations, always almost getting caught."

Whatever has me coiled up for the past few months finally snaps. It's like a tick inside me, and a buried well of emotions pour out of me before I can stop it. "Then don't come! I'm sorry I'm such a burden to you, always dragging you with me. You choose to stay every time, so today, choose to not come with me! Choose to fucking let me go alone. It's that simple, and I'll get it done faster."

I'm breathless, and he's grinding his jaw so hard I'm afraid it'll hurt him. "Lower your voice," he hisses. He pulls my arm and starts walking into the building. "People are watching."

I don't realize people are watching us, or that I am shaking until he grabs my arm and he has to steady it, but I know the tremors are not from the cold. He drags me into an empty Chem lab and shuts the door behind us, hard. The liquid in the glass flasks reflecting light from the windows shake on the counter.

When he crosses his arms, his gaze is dark, smoldering, and dangerous. I've never seen him this enraged before with the veins in his neck straining, his mouth pressed into a line, and his shoulders set in a boulder. But I'm still high on fury to care for anything other than my point of view.

"Let me out." My voice is shakier than I'd like it to be.

"So, you're not going to budge." He says it as a statement, not a question.

"No."

"Fine. Have it your way." He takes a step sideways, giving me access to the door.

I don't waste time and stalk to the door, pulling it open.

I'm about to step outside when he grabs my arm and leans in. "But this time, I won't be there to catch you. You're on your own, Sage."

Our faces are so close that I can see the birthmark above his brow and feel the angry heat radiating from him. He doesn't realize that I trap so much more fury—ugly, wild and mad—that can make his ball of anger cry. I lean in closer and whisper, "I don't need anyone to catch me."

༺༻

As I storm out of the school, walk to the subway station, run down the stairs to the platform, and take a seat in the train, I ride out the high of my fury like a crashing, infuriating wave. With each step I take, I the lividness inside me becomes smaller and smaller until it is just a meek wave on the shore, and I am slumped in the plastic seat of the train, my jaw and fists unclenched.

There are two stops before my destination. I let myself sink in my seat, empty and unthinking before the first stop.

My stare at the metal pole in the middle of the train becomes vacant, not processing the people passing in front of me, holding on to the bars, sitting across me, and I wish that I held on to that anger for a bit longer. It serves as a distraction and a compulsion at the same time. Now, there is just a hole where the fire once burned in me, and it's so physical and vast that I wonder if there's another reason behind it.

The train grunts out a tired groan, and its momentum slows down beneath me: the first interval is over.

I straighten in my seat and push out all the sulking thoughts like a machine coming to life—wires connecting, electricity whirring in sparks, noises buzzing and thrumming.

It's now 7:49, a little more than an hour before they arrive. I'll swap my uniform with the clothes in my bag, find a good hideout spot, and wait. Everything is set. Except . . .

The woman sitting across me pulls a Subway-wrapped sandwich from her large, leather bag, then a fork and knife. She wears a crisp blazer and a pencil skirt with a PA-style haircut and sits with her legs crossed. Maybe an aspiring magazine writer, a personal assistant, a fashion design intern, but that doesn't concern me. My gaze zeroes on the fork and knife.

When she feels my stare, she stops cutting into her lettuce-overflowed sandwich and glances up.

I give her a tight-lipped smile. "Can I borrow that?"

"What's that?"

"The knife." I jut my chin to the cutlery in her manicured hand.

"You want my knife?" she asks tentatively, pausing between her words.

I nod obviously. I think I was clear.

"Umm," she laughs nervously, glancing at my scar for a fleeting second. "Sure."

"Thank you." I wipe the grease off it with a napkin from my bag and tuck it in a zipper. A little blunt, but it'll do. Much better than a gun, I think. I have better control, and no one has to die this way.

When the train slows down once again, my heart jumps in my chest. I sling the bag over my back, step out of the transport, and jog up the stairs amidst a crowd of rushing people. The green Starbucks logo is the first thing I spot, and in a quick split-second decision, I enter the coffee shop.

Heavy-brewing coffee and central air conditioner hit me at once, followed by the name-calling of baristas behind the counter. I stop myself before my thoughts drift to the familiar aroma and air of Rin's café, and make my way to their bathroom.

Inside the compact space, the noise from outside is dulled. Dim light illuminates the grey-walled bathroom that reeks of urine mixed with strawberry Febreeze. I slacken slightly against the door, letting my backpack slide to the ground, its straps loosely held in my hands.

In the mirror, I see a messy ponytail and flushed cheeks from the cold, ruffled, preppy tie and a button-up. With quick movements, I take off my uniform and step into the clothes from my bag, switching my ponytail for a low bun, twisted the way Mom does her hair. I wrap the black scarf I packed modestly around my hair, the way models do on the covers of vintage magazines, and slip on the oversized glasses that hide my distinct scar. The school bag, I realize, can't be brought with me: it's extra baggage that will slow me down. I pull out the knife and keep it pressed behind the waistband of my pants, my phone clutched in my hands.

With a click, I open the doors of the bathroom and step out, making my way to one of the baristas behind the counter.

"Hey," I call out. A blonde guy with thick-rimmed glasses smiles at me, starts to gesture to the line on the other side of the counter, but I speak first. "Can you keep my bag here just for a sec? I don't want it to get stolen."

"Yeah, sure thing." He nods, takes it from me, and I dart out of the coffee shop.

719 Edgewood Drive, the address is fresh in my mind. My feet join the upbeat tempo of rushing feet on grey ground, across a bustling street of cars, then to the end of an alleyway, all the while feeling like a girl playing dress-up in my disguise.

I don't need a sign to identify the abandoned factory. It's all dingy red bricks and tiled glass patterned in shades of green and blue, some of it intact, others half shattered, and some others a gaping hole where the glass should be. KEEP OUT, a graffitied sign reads in melting black spray paint.

How promising, I think as I step in a mucky puddle and enter the building through a hole just wide enough for me. There is no door as an entrance; I assume it's on the other side of the factory.

The inside resembles an area that might have went through a war. Ribbons of dusty light peek through the shattered windows, revealing peeling walls, rundown machines, questionable white-turned-yellow sheet-covered objects, and a rickety spiraling staircase at the far end. Water drips somewhere, creating a hollow pinking noise that is impossible to ignore.

I take cover behind a metal cabinet that reeks of rust and dampness, close enough to the hole I used as my entrance just in case I need it but hidden well enough out of sight.

And then I wait.

༺༻

It is nine a.m. exactly (according to my phone) when I hear footsteps echo in the area, coming from the other side of the building. It's more than one pair of footsteps, but I can't identify the exact number. I don't risk turning my head just yet. Quietly, I hit the record button on my phone.

"Gets prettier every time, don't it?" someone says in a low voice, but not low enough for the vast space to not give it an echo that reaches where I stand.

"I don't give a rat's shit 'bout how this place looks. I care about the man I expect to come here." Another voice: colder and with a European accent. Italian, maybe.

More footsteps, indicating new arrivals.

"Are you talking about me, Mr. Giordano?" A third voice that I immediately recognize as David Roman's.

"Ha! Here he is. See him, my friend, Peter"—a dramatic pause—"is someone in America that I can give a rat's shit about. A rat's head even."

"You are a funny man, Mr. Giordano," replies David.

"No, I am not. I am an angry man that's been patient for far too long." Mr. Giordano tuts. "You know, these Americans, they are so fond of their fast cars, fast food, fast delivery. Yet, I do not see any of these things here. No fast anything. It is, what do you Americans call it? Ballshit? Billshit?"

"Bullshit," the first voice whispers.

"Yes, it is bullshit."

A sigh. "Mr. Giordano," David says, "it's not that simple. I told you that when we made this deal a few months ago. The media is on my ass and—"

"And what?"

"And I have to be careful. I'm a respected medicine manufacturing corporation. Using my company for drugs—illegal drugs to be smuggled to Europe . . . I need more time."

The phone in my hand almost slips between my fingers.

"You've done it before, no? That is why I came to you."

"Yes but not on a scale this big. Not when my workers started spying on me and I had to deal with them. The FBI is monitoring me and—"

"This meeting is over, Mr. Roman. You know what happens when I don't get my delivery. In two weeks' time, we will meet again, but I will bring my men and you will bring your goods."

The feet start to shuffle away in—

My direction, I realize with cold panic in my chest. Why aren't they using the main entrance?

Fuck.

Quickly, I take off my shoes as to not make any noise and start to tiptoe to the gaping hole in the wall, the shuffling feet behind me getting closer and closer by the second. Finally, I swiftly step out through the dirty hole and land on my knees roughly. I can feel the beginning of a bruise forming.

"Do you hear that?" someone asks from inside. My heart drops to my stomach. "Go check that out. I think someone's there."

I sloppily put my shoes on, heels poking out, and sprint down the alley, almost tripping twice as I escape. My legs run faster than I can carry myself, shoes slapping asphalt, until I reach the main street.

The subway station is a street away. I'd have to wait at the traffic light.

"Hey! Hey!" the man yells from the end of the alley. "Come back here!"

I don't turn my head and start running again. I'll have to lose him.

"Stop right there!" The voice is closer than I'd like it to be.

Panic grips me in every inch of my body as I sprint and sprint, zigzagging through pedestrians and bike-riders and strolling families, my scarf starting to go loose. My lungs scream every time I inhale the cold morning air, shocking my throat.

"I said stop!"

One of my shoes slips off my foot. I leave it behind and round a corner, horror trembling my exhausted limbs.

A red car drives by me, moving at a pace that matches my running, and I think, I won't make it if they're running after me in cars.

The passenger door opens. "Get in!"

I glimpse Theo's face.

I jump into the car, barely shutting the door as he zooms away.