Even though I’m probably already late, two more minutes to check my email won’t hurt. Spam, circulars, nothing in my inbox that actually has my name on it. Bank balance hovering stubbornly at the not enough level. I decide to take a quick peek at the back end of Nick’s operating system, and I delete the script that’s been making his browser blurry. It was an infantile trick anyway. Then I check his online banking. He’s not getting off the hook entirely. One of his monthly direct debits is a donation to the Christian Children’s Fund, so I make a duplicate payment to go out next week. Into my Bitcoin wallet, of course—I wouldn’t be stupid enough to use my cash account. The bank will cover the mistake, so it isn’t really stealing, not from anyone but the bank. And it’s pretty much their fault the kids are poor in the first place. It’ll get me where I’m going—once I figure out where that is. If I need any more, I’ve got all his keystrokes. By the time he notices, I’ll be long gone.

I shove a few dollars, some pot, and my cell phone into one of Lolly’s square, brown handbags. As it goes in, I check my phone—no missed calls. It makes me wonder if my parents still have this number. If I leave and they don’t have it, they’ll call the house phone. And if I’m not here . . .

I go to the living room to change the outgoing message on Lolly’s answering machine. I hit record and after a couple of embarrassing false starts I get something down: You have reached (do I say my name? Lolly’s?) Erase. Violet Sadler cannot take your call right now (yeah, that’s a fucking understatement . . . ) Erase. Breathe. This isn’t rocket science. We cannot take your call, but please leave a message or, if your message is urgent, please call (pause—it’ll take them a second to find a pen) 603-555-4966. That’s six-oh-three, five-five-five, four-nine-six-six. Again, 603-555-4966.

To double-check, I dial the landline from my cell. Hearing the ring startles a little scream out of me. It’s painful to hear, like a crying baby that I can’t pick up. Six rings, then there’s a click and the message plays. After the beep I say, Testing, just a test to check that this piece-of-shit twentieth-century technology is still operational . . . I can see the tape rolling, taking it down.

The path around the house is narrow, and I press myself against the outside wall to keep as far as possible from the edge. It feels like I’m sneaking out, which helps, I think. I’m excited. I am.

* * *