Thinking of this, of course she shouldn’t have had the drinks, but she needs the buzz, the thing that makes the world go a little slant, so she can pretend that this new life is a fever she’ll wake from, that one day she’ll be returned to herself—whoever that is anymore. Sometimes she puts a little money into the slots because it means free drinks: the waitresses will come around and bring you cheap liquor, wine, or beer, but she’s afraid she’s too familiar now. Most of them have caught on that she only plays a buck or two, then milks it for four, five drinks at a time. Worse, they could call security or even the cops, if they know she’s here picking up men. When she thinks back on the past few months it is through the warped haze of a hangover, a blend of discomfort, disgust, self-hatred, but one that also feels slightly unreal.

Maybe that’s why she ran away from the girl in the fortune-teller’s shop. At first the card had made her smile. The cheesy illustrations, moons with eyes, the punny name. Clara Voyant. But as she held it in her hand, it seemed more and more like an invitation. Since she got to Atlantic City, she had avoided thinking about the future, beyond what she needed to do to cover her room, get a bit of food. But when she sat down with the fortune-teller, that girl, suddenly the prospect of having to reckon with the consequences of her decisions seemed like the most terrible possibility in the world—more terrible than the smell of strange men on her skin, than the motel room where she has heard gunshots ring out from the parking lot, where roaches scuttle out from the shower drain.