In the Corolla, which I’ve picked up from Simone’s building, I run that moment in my mind again and again. Her question about morality. A mutual acknowledgment of a secret.

Bonds have been made on less.

The police station on Cambie is right under a bridge. If, like me, you enter the lobby of the station and are ignored by the cops, criminals, and regular civilians standing around, you may feel the need to bury your pathetic instinct to seek help. Maybe you feel that there’s no support here, that no one will help you despite the evidence that someone is trying to kill you and take your daughter. Again. Maybe you feel the need to take the walkway up onto the bridge, try to climb over the railing, fail, and instead consider flinging yourself at the cars speeding past.

This pit stop wasn’t planned, yet here I am. Standing in the lobby and trying to imagine a situation where a cop would give me the time of day to explain. Excuse me, sir, but there is a mercenary after me. Sorry, alleged mercenary. He blames me for the deaths of certain members of a family he was close to. Do I look like a femme fatale from an old-time film to you? Point is, someone—this alleged mercenary—sent some hit men after me in Detroit and has now tried to take my estranged daughter. Also there was a run-in in Indonesia I should probably tell you about where he murdered an eccentric billionaire bent on revenge.

Then I would feel guilty because I think of this imaginary policeman as a man and what does that say about my feelings on gender equality?

Whatever instinct brought me here has failed me. I wait just inside the door for someone to notice me, some sign of interest. Two police officers stare at me as they walk past. “This isn’t a shelter,” says the woman cop. “Go warm up somewhere else.”

“Hang on,” says her male partner. “Not sure there are shelter beds free tonight. Weather report’s calling for more snow.”

“Really?” she replies. “Climate change is a bitch. At least it’s good for the skiing.”

I leave while they move from discussing their weekend plans to the likelihood of more traffic accidents and the possibility of overtime pay.

I’m not even a blip in their memories.

I walk out of the station to discover that snow hasn’t started falling behind my back, but something else, something ominous, has appeared. I’ve looked away, blinked, and there is now a Salvation Army Santa ringing his bell on the corner.

My endangered daughter who’s no longer estranged has shown up with a hickey on her neck, just in time for the holiday season.

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