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window, and the drainpipe there. I cling to that like a bar-
nacle, waiting for it to break free of the brick and toss me
to the ground, but it holds long enough for me to slide
down it to the next floor. Then another. The rivets holding
the metal brackets bite at me, tearing my skin through my
tracksuit, but there’s no choice. It’s slide or fall. Or jump, I
think when I ratchet down another floor and the agony in
my thighs from the cutting metal makes me want to pass
out. I’m still three stories up when I twist to the left and I
see an open Dumpster. Can I do this? Hand over hand, my
fingers cramping and aching, I climb out along the win-
dow ledges—these are bricked-up windows now, no longer
glass—until I’m hanging over the Dumpster. If I’ve miscal-
culated, I will definitely break myself on the edge. Images
of me hitting wrong and breaking my neck send me into a
cold sweat, but I don’t have a choice.
I drop.
I fall.
I land up to my waist in a mess of cardboard and coffee
grinds. Shattered glass slices my calf, and both my ankles
explode into agony, but when I test my weight on them,
they don’t seem to be broken. Breathing hard against the
choking stink of the garbage, I crouch and try to gather my
wits.
How long do I have before they come for me? Can they
track me by the collar? I don’t have time to figure it out.
I pull myself out of the garbage and land, legs buckling,
