“You are not doing this,” I whisper. “You are not?—“
I jump and regret everything.
The dumpster smells like hot diarrhea.
Yeah, it’s that bad.
Yet I don't climb out right away. I sit there for a second—boots sinking into heaven knows what, lungs too full of ammonia and regret, a piece of rebar resting dangerously close to my leg.
All I can think is:
If I had a conscience with an off switch, this would be so much easier.
But I never did. Even as a kid.
While other girls were choreographing recess dance routines or memorizing the names of every boy band, I was the one trying to organize a protest because the lunch lady had to work through her chemo. I was the kid who got in trouble for calling out the PE teacher’s weird comments. The girl who stayed up all night researching eviction law because our neighbor with three kids got slapped with a notice on her door, and nobody else seemed to care.
That’s the thing about growing up broke with a single mom who didn’t take shit from anybody except the entire economy: You learn early that the people in charge rarely do the right thing unless someone makes it uncomfortable not to.
Unfortunately, I’ve always been really good at making people uncomfortable.
It’s not about being brave. I’m not. I'm terrified all the time — of failing, of ending up just another girl who burned out chasing something too big for her hands.
But when I see something wrong I can’t let it go.
I tried, once.
The confidential notes thing in my legal clinic. A classmate was flailing. She needed help for a mock negotiation she was tooashamed to admit she didn’t understand. I gave her confidential client information—just enough to help her fake confidence. I never thought she’d use them. Never thought they’d get out. Never thought they’d trace them back to me.
They did.
Which means I should be extra careful. Low-profile. No mistakes. No drama.
Definitely no breaking and entering.
And yet, here I am.
Because I sawhim. Curled in the corner of his pen, shivering so hard he made the water dish vibrate.
No one’s claimed him, and in the morning, he’ll be gone.
I grab the piece of rebar next to me and hoist myself onto the ledge of the dumpster, muscles screaming in protest. The metal bar is cold and slick in my hands, but I grip it tight and swing.
Glass cracks.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
On the fourth hit, it gives.
A rain of jagged edges tumbles down into the alley. I duck, shielding my face and breathing hard.
Blood slides down my forearm.
Because heaven forbid anything I do come without interest.
