“Didn’t you say you wanted to overthrow the list completely?”

“I did. But what has this to do—”

“Can I see it?” Nikki interrupts.

She’s one of the few friends ever to be trusted with knowledge of the list’s existence.

“Why?”

“I want to check something.”

I search for the slip of paper inside its honorary pocket in my bag, but it’s not there. I rummage through the main compartment and find it crumpled at the bottom.

“Here.” I hand it over.

Nikki snatches the list from me, gets hold of a pen, and searches the various items with her eyes. “So, we can cross out never make a scene and never get drunk.” She draws two lines on the respective entries. “And here, number fifteen, always move up the ladder, never down.” Nikki pins me with a satisfied stare. “You’re so taking the job.”

***

I wait until the next morning to crawl back to Brooklyn, buying myself some time to become human again. As awakenings go, today couldn’t be any more different from yesterday. The fit watch goes off at five thirty a.m., and on autopilot I shuffle out bed, dress in sporty clothes, and go for a run. From my apartment, I jog up Canal St. to the Hudson River waterfront and then up to 57th Street and back. It takes me longer than my usual time, but the ten-mile run does wonders to detox my entire system and puts me in a positive mood. Thank you, endorphins. After a long shower and a healthy breakfast, I get ready to make the trip to hell—er, Brooklyn.

I walk to Canal St. subway station in my foldable flats and I’m about to automatically jump on the uptown train when I remember my real destination. My chest contracts in pain as I break out of auto-pilot and steer away from the uptown train at the last moment. I already miss Évoque so much, and not just for its geography and wardrobe perks. I miss the halo of power.

On edge before even starting the trip, I study the map to figure out the most convenient route to Richard’s office. Irony of ironies, I still have to take the blue line. Only instead of heading up to Columbus Circle, I’m literally moving down and out of Manhattan to High Street, Brooklyn.

The address on the card brings me to one of those historic factory loft buildings. There’s no reception so I walk straight to the elevators—not even proper ones, freight. Richard’s card says third floor. I push three and wait for the freight machine to make its slow, slow way up. As I pass the second floor, voices drift down from above—raised voices.

“I’m having your license revoked,” a woman is shouting. “According to New York MHY 33.21 in providing outpatient mental health services to a minor, the important role of the parents or guardians shall be recognized. That’s me.”

“Instead of worrying about having my license revoked,” a man replies, “you should ask yourself why your daughter came to seek my help. And while you’re at it, have a good look in the mirror.”