This could be one of the last ways you might understand her. You’re still scared to go all the way, to open the gates of your brain to the drugs, but this … this is something you could point to and, if you were to meet her again (impossible, impossible, but how little all that seems to matter now), you could say that you understood her desperation, understood the sadness and the strangeness and the loneliness of some man on top of you, groaning a name you gave him that wasn’t yours.

Afterward, you weep to yourself on the long walk back into town, the marsh grass wavering, rippling like a prairie.

You wait a day and tell yourself you’ll do it just once more—you want a cushion, after all, just a little bit more cash. You wait until it’s dark, moths weaving in and out under the streetlights. Cars blare their horns at you as you make your way down the shoulder of the road, warning or greeting. Your uncle could drive by at any minute, if he hasn’t already gone home. But still, a part of you wants to rescue yourself, the you of the gingham coverlet, the you of the track medals hanging above your bed.

When you get to the Sunset Motel, you’re not the only girl there, but you’re the newest, so you sit on the edge of an old planter box until the three other women pick someone up. The parking lot is empty, and all you can hear is the feeble buzz and crackle of the neon sign above your head. The name of the motel, and then a sun, a half circle with sticks of neon that light up one at a time, like rays, and then go dark. A man comes out of a room and you hold his gaze. You can’t tell if he’s checking you out or is about to call the cops. Just in case, you look down at your feet as he comes near.

He introduces himself as John, and you introduce yourself as Suzanna. Your mother’s name. It carries a current on your tongue and makes everything afterward both more real and less real. He asks you if you’re looking to party, which you guess is one of the ways people talk about what you’re about to do. Maybe, you say. You feel stupid, that you don’t entirely know what you’re signing on for if you say yes.

He tells you he’s got some stuff in his room. He’s still looking at you in a way you wouldn’t quite describe as sexual. Hungry, maybe.