Standing in the middle of the empty lot, she could see the headlights of the cars and trucks barreling down Route 77; she could even see the exit ramp leading down to the feeder road.

The address you gave me is invalid, the dispatcher had told her. It means that, according to our system, the address doesn’t—

Doesn’t what? Doesn’t exist? How was that possible?

Amy ran around to the side of the building, her sneakers slapping warm asphalt, until she reached the distant side lot where partners were required to park their vehicles.

There was Ruth Anne’s Jeep with its “My other car is a Harley” bumper sticker. Basil’s Nissan Cube with its TARDIS1 license plate. There was a third car, a junked-up Subaru, that had to be Matt’s or Trinity’s. Then there was her sad Honda Civic, leaking oil.

But still no cops. She had no one but herself.

Amy fumbled her keys from her pocket and opened the Honda’s door. The car buzzed at her, as if a door ajar was the most important problem in her life right now. You’re not abandoning them, she told herself. You’re going to get help. It was the smart thing to do. It was a good idea.

She locked the doors, started the engine, and pointed her car toward the exit. Then she floored the gas before she could change her mind, aiming for the feeder road that led to Route 77.

“Someone has to get out,” she said to herself. “Someone has to get out and get help. It doesn’t mean I’m running away … ”

But she was running away. That’s what Warden Worth’s chair had taught her: she was always giving up, quitting early, walking away. It was so much easier not to try. The chair had made it so easy to surrender.

At the edge of the parking lot, Amy pressed on the brakes. From there, she watched the lights of the highway, the endless stream of cars and buses and tractor trailers. No doubt a police cruiser was out there looking for an exit its officers would never find.

She looked back at the store. From a distance it didn’t seem menacing at all. It was just a big beige box made out of cheap materials plunked down in a sea of asphalt. Everything else was smoke and mirrors, a programmed experience. It was easier to see this reality from the outside. It was easy to forget on the inside. And her friends were still on the inside.

No, not her friends. They were store partners, not friends. There was a difference, she reminded herself.

But Basil had come back. She thought he’d just been repeating a bunch of Orsk propaganda about responsibility, but he’d actually meant it. He’d rescued her from the chair and faced an army of penitents to keep her safe.