Nem attempted pointing out there were no zombies in Hunger Games, thinking this might be a test of her literary knowledge. It wasn’t. She would learn that mixed metaphors, and crazy but somehow still reasonable ideas, populated Diane’s quips.

“Well, that’s the problem right there. The undead always improve a storyline.”

When Nem discovered they were both Jane Austen fans, she decided to break her no friends rule this once, just for a moment to indulge her passion for discussing books.

“I’ve read Fifty Shades of Gray. I’ll kill you if you tell anyone,” she whispered. “And I wouldn’t say no to Mr. Darcy if I met him at a dance and discovered he enjoyed using a horsewhip. I’d have no pride or prejudice with him.”

By the end of the interview, Nem knew the job was hers. Even without the diary’s help, the click of meshing kindred spirits was as loud as the green book’s turning cogs of fate.

Work began the following Monday and she had spent the time barely containing her excitement. She avoided traveling via the preacher’s street on her first day. He wouldn’t be there anymore. Misfortune would find him without her as a witness. She also didn’t want anyone to remember her from their meeting. Most likely nobody would recall them together, but she still remained cautious.

Her new boss’ company was too much fun. She foresaw a friendship growing between them, despite her determination to stick to her golden rule. Diane made it near impossible to not like her. Her zany, multi-colored leggings alone was enough reason to adore her.

That wasn’t the only rule she ignored. She’d begun to use the diary again. Removing the pavement preacher had lit something inside and she’d decided why not dabble in a little vigilante work. Maybe she’d need her store of luck one day.

She’d become even more cautious though, in that she would now venture to distant parts of the city, never visiting the same place twice. With this new hobby, along with working in the same location every day, she didn’t want her habits noticed. Chances were remote that her secret would be discovered. Why tempt fate though?

Nem had never been keen on crossing paths again with any of the strangers whose names appeared in the diary. That had happened to her once with an elderly man, Mr. Bentley, who lived on her street. A crotchety old guy who repeatedly complained that living his life wasn’t worth a damn. She didn’t enjoy witnessing his face grow haggard as illness devoured his body, but she did feel a certain satisfaction she’d delivered his wish (whether he’d been serious or not).

With the unknowns she met, she also didn’t care to know whether they survived accidents which befell them. Though she had banished guilt from her conscience, she didn’t need reminding that every good piece of luck delivered, demanded that an equal tragedy befall another. She simply enjoyed totting up the lines filled with minuses like scalps worn by warriors.