I had walked out on the gas station schedule.

I had exactly fourteen dollars to my name.

I was cut completely loose from the safe, predictable life I’d been living just yesterday morning.

At nine that night I set up the metal ironing board beside the kitchen sink.

My black funeral dress hung on a wire hanger hooked over a cabinet door.

It was a scratchy wool blend I’d let out twice at the sides in the last ten years.

I spread the dress flat on the board and plugged in the iron.