I waited until they were within fifteen yards, getting my breath, getting my courage. When they were close enough that they could start calling to me—“It’s no use running—Give it up, girlie—No point in fighting”—I jumped.

The water was nearly ice. I took in a frozen filthy mouthful and spat. My lungs and heart banged in protest. My bones and head began to ache. My ears rang and light spots danced in my eyes. Yards. It’s only yards. You can do it. One arm after the other. One foot up, one down, don’t worry about the weight of the shoes, you’re almost across, you’re almost out, there’s a boulder, slide across it, now you can walk, now you can climb up this bank.

The drawstring on my warm-up pants gave up completely. I wrestled myself free of them and lumbered toward the road. The wet cold was making me dizzy; inky shapes floated in front of me. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t see if the man at the bottom of the inlet had been able to move across the end before I’d swum over, couldn’t see the size or shape of my pursuit. In my wet shoes, with my teeth chattering, I could hardly move, but help lay ahead. I pushed myself doggedly.

I would have made it if it hadn’t been for the goddamn boulders. I was just too tired, too disoriented, to see. I tripped over a giant rock and fell heavily. I was taking great gasps of air, trying to get to my feet, and then I was writhing in black-slickered arms, kicking, flailing, even biting, when all the floating inky spots gathered into a giant ball and fire exploded in my brain.

After a time I knew I was very sick. I couldn’t breathe. Pneumonia. I’d waited outside in the rain for my daddy. He promised to pick me up during a break on his shift and the break didn’t come—he never thought I’d wait that long. Lie under this tent, breathe slowly, watch for Mama, she says everything will be all right and you know she never lies. I tried opening my eyes. The movement stabbed great fingers of pain into my brain, forcing me back into darkness.

I woke again, rocking helplessly back and forth, my arms tied, a boulder pushing into my side. I was wrapped in something heavy, something that pushed into my mouth. If I threw up, I’d suffocate myself. Lie as still as possible. Not the time to struggle.

I knew who I was this time. V. I. Warshawski. Girl detective. Idiot extraordinaire. The heavy stuff was a blanket. I couldn’t see, but I imagined it—green, standard Sears issue. I was wedged against the backseat of a car. Not a boulder, but the drive shaft. When I got out of here I’d get City Council to make front-wheel drive mandatory for all Chicago criminals. Get stopped with a drive shaft in your car and you’d do time, like the IRS getting Al Capone. When I got out of here.