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  67. 3:46 a.m.

The constant head-turning and the many times I stop to hide decimate my time. With a mile left, I have four minutes. And since I'm not Usain Bolt, I'm screwed.

The hunt begins.

Where can I sleep for twenty-three hours without being discovered?

There is only one logical answer.

I shine my cell phone into the dumpster behind the Italian restaurant. It is two-thirds full and I'm hoping this means the pick-up is still a couple days off. I climb inside, dig myself down into the slimy refuse, cover myself in as many bags as I can, and close my eyes.

:09

Every once in a great while, I will wake up a couple minutes early. 2:59. 2:58. Once, even 2:57.

It’s like Christmas, each minute a beautifully wrapped gift just waiting to be opened. Should I allow myself an extra minute in the shower? Could I read three more pages of my book? Run another quarter mile? Watch a YouTube video? Watch the swimming pool scene from Wild Things, twice?

Today, I wake up at 2:58 a.m.

Two extra minutes.

It requires one of these minutes to pull myself from the now three-quarters full dumpster. And it necessitates another minute to rid my hair and body of the potpourri of spaghetti, breadcrumbs, day-old lasagna, and maggots. As unpleasant as maggots are—and they are unpleasant, trust me on this—I try to look on the bright side: I wasn't killed by those pesky guys trying to kill me, and I wasn't discovered by an underpaid busser who called 911, and I wasn't at a landfill. All things considered, I called myself lucky. And quite honestly, I'd slept well. Day-old lasagna is like memory foam.

I take the back way to my condo, which adds two blocks, but I don't want to risk discovery by the goons patrolling the street in front of my condo, and when I walk through the door, it is 3:06.

I check the blinds, but don't see any suspicious cars on the street. As for the goons, I’m not sure if they were a hit squad, the Secret Service, or some angry congressmen, but I know I hadn't seen the last of them. I latch the security lock on my door, throw my clothes in a garbage bag, and shower.

When I sit down to the computer, it is 3:17 a.m.

There is no breaking news about the President being arrested and I concede that he's gotten away with murder. And that I should let him if I want to remain alive.

I check my stocks, which have been crippled over the last couple days – I'd lost about 40k – and I decide to ride out the storm with a couple of them and sell off the remainder.