He had handed me, in a single text message, the final proof of exactly who he was, and exactly how little I meant to him, and exactly how thoroughly he assumed I would comply.

And he had done it, without knowing it, at the precise moment I most needed a reason to do the thing I had already, in my bones, decided to do.

“Next stop, Milwaukee,” the intercom announced, through a burst of static.

And I stopped laughing, and I picked up my bag, and I got ready.

Chapter 4 — The Very First Stop

When the doors slid open at Milwaukee, I did not head toward a station cafe.