The waning daylight painted the sidewalks and the buildings in weak gold. There were still people outside, rushing to get home for dinner as I made my way to the pharmacy. When I arrived, there was a huge line in front of the pickup window and only one person checking out patients and doing consultations. She seemed new. I couldn't remember her face.
Almost thirty minutes passed before I reached the counter.
I picked up my prescription and declined the consultation, stating that I was familiar with the medication. The pharmacist looked back at my file on her computer and smiled apologetically. "Oh, yes, you're right. Sorry about that. And sorry for the long wait. We've been short-staffed today all day and I'm the only one closing."
"No worries. Thanks."
The city after dark felt different—hungrier. The street was mostly quiet, except for occasional passers-by.
As I walked back home, I tried to focus on the rhythm of my steps, the swing of my arms, the inventory of what hurt and what didn't. The paper bag in my left hand rustled a little. But my mind kept flicking to the windows overhead, the hidden spaces behind dumpsters and parked cars.
It wasn't something I could control very well yet.
At the corner, I hesitated. The alley between an apartment complex and a small shopping center was a straight shot to the next street over—a shortcut to my apartment that would eliminate at least a block of walking. But it was also a blind spot, with nothing but a couple of trash bins and a flickering lamp over a loading dock.
For some reason, I checked my phone, then I pulled the pepper spray from my pocket and turned into the alley.
Maybe I wanted to challenge myself, to see if the incident three years ago still had a hold on my mind. Or maybe I was just stupid. Like a female lead in an old slasher movie where she did the exact opposite of what a sane person would do while on the run from a serial killer with a knife.
The space closed in right away.
I moved fast, head down, counting each step.
Ten in, I heard the echo of another footfall, out of sync with mine.
I froze, not physically but mentally.
My feet continued on, bag with medication in one hand, pepper spray in the other.
My chest felt hollow as I tried to listen.
Nothing.
I sped up. There it was again, behind me—lighter, quicker, but there. I glanced back, heart in my throat, and stared into the darkness. Nothing moved. No one.
I walked faster. So did the steps.
Now I could hear them for sure. My panic was real and raw. I did the only thing I could think of—I reached into my pocket for the burner.
The footsteps gained. I cleared the alley but instead of waiting for the light to cross, I cut left because I needed to keep moving. I strode past the shuttered laundromat and the all-night bakery with its windows lit up like a stage set. It wasn't the way home anymore, and I wasn't sure why I did it.
I risked another glance back. A male silhouette appeared from the alley. I couldn't make out his face but I knew he was following me.
When an opportunity presented itself and I was hidden from his view by the large tree, I ducked behind a parked van, pressed my back to the cold metal, and dialed theCustomer Servicenumber on the burner.
Two rings.
"Operative Seven," he said. His voice was exactly as I remembered—monotone, clipped, the world's most reliable compass. "I told you not to ca?—"
"I'm in danger. I swear I'm not lying," I rattled off in a half whisper. I had to swallow before speaking again. "I think someone's following me."
A pause. The line was so quiet I thought he might have hung up.
"Where are you?" Calm. Not a tremor.
I listed the cross streets, fumbling them out between gasps. He didn't waste time with comfort. Just listened.
"You see the Korean market on the south side?" he asked.
