I jump on the next train and ride the T all morning long. I like the C Line, even though it’s more of a trolley than a subway, because it goes aboveground part of the time. So I just ride it up and down Boston, and I keep drawing a D, over and over, in the steam on the window—Drew, Drew, Drew. I go past Fenway, the “Cathedral” where the Sox play, and when the train slides underground I look up and imagine my angel as we zoom under Boston Garden, then we rumble beneath the dystopian buildings of Government Center. I have to get out at the end of the line, North Station, and change directions, then I ride the train back to Cleveland Circle, to the reservoir in front of Boston College, where I walked with Mom last Thanksgiving. We drank pumpkin spice lattes, and she told me it was okay I didn’t want to go to college.

Then she fucking died, and now I ride trains by myself and think thoughts like: Anna Karenina was brave.

It takes brass ovaries to throw yourself in front of a train.

I only saw the movie, because I’m not smart enough to read the book. Mae read the book.

And then I have to try hard not to cry in public. Because it’s wrong to want to die so badly when someone spent twenty-one hours in labor to bring you into the world.

It’s warm in these old, cranky cars and I’m clean and young and don’t look homeless, so no one bothers me. That’s what you call privilege, I guess. It’s a Sunday morning, and the other passengers are carrying shopping bags and children and are too busy planning next week’s Thanksgiving dinner to notice the girl at the end of the car wrapped in an olive-green wool coat, her tangled hair covered with a thick knitted hat a drug dealer—former drug dealer—bought her on a whim because it has a pouf on the top that he thought might make her smile.

Just when I’m about to start feeling sad about Drew, my diamonds start to shine inside me. Pretty, pretty Oxy (Percocet’s for babies) wraps itself around me and we are woven in each other, in love.

I smile.

I forget.

I float.

Pro Tip: Wear sunglasses. Put in earbuds. No one bothers you.

People come and go. I am here and not here. Not awake, not asleep.

In between.

In limbo.

No

one

sees

me.

I am invisible.

As usual.

I have to wait in the cold for the next train to take me back across Boston, knee-deep in snow, but I barely notice because I didn’t just take one pill, I took two.

Maybe I should have taken them all.

Just.

Hannah.

I ride and ride and ride.