I wanted a picture of the bar alone, so once Jim was clear, I took another shot. Then I lowered the camera and studied the place.

It looked different.

I ran my eyes over the façade, but I couldn’t put my finger on what had changed.

Strange.

Really strange.

The hair on my arms went all prickly, and I found myself struggling to take a breath.

Oh no. Not here.

I sat down on the slushy sidewalk, stuck my head between my knees, and snapped the rubber band around my wrist. It did no good. My heart was beating impossibly fast, and a vise had tightened around my chest. My vision tunneled away to nothing.

“Betty?”

I blinked up at someone’s face. It was round and very pink. A woman. My brain wasn’t working well enough to figure out who it was, so I just said, “I’m okay.”

That’s what I always said. It cut down on the ambulance bills.

I got into a sitting position and looked around. I’d been lying half on the sidewalk, half in the gutter. I touched my head. Ice and grit had worked their way into my scalp. A whole lot of people were standing around me.

Great. Just great.

“You have one of your fits, honey?” Pink Face said.

I stared up at her, trying to place her. I was certain I knew her, but I couldn’t come up with a name.

“Yeah. I guess. I’m all right, though.”

“You wanna try standing up?” a man said from behind me.

I looked back. It was Jim Foley, the drunk I’d been feeling sorry for not too long ago. He was looking down at me with an expression of pity. Talk about karmic retribution.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

A bunch of people hoisted me up.

I swayed a little, still feeling woozy. “Where’s my camera?”

“It’s right here, hon,” said Pink Face.

I took it from her and examined it. Miraculously, it didn’t seem to have gotten too wet. Just to be on the safe side, I pulled the battery out. If the thing broke, I’d never afford a new one.

I looked around at the crowd. Their faces had all kinds of different expressions — sympathy, embarrassment, fascination, repulsion. Not one of them was looking at me like I was a normal person.

I mumbled a “thank you” and started walking.

“You sure you’re okay to get yourself home?” Jim called after me.

“Yeah.” I didn’t bother stopping. “I’m good.”

I rooted around in the random-junk drawer in my basement, certain my mother had hung onto a bunch of those silica packets that come inside stuff you buy. And she had. They were in the back, in a large zipper bag.