The woman in the diner who is not her, can’t be her, leans on the counter, brings her palm onto the bell. Please ring for service, again and again, even though the waitress is still bustling behind the pie case. Just a minute, the waitress says sharply. The woman hasn’t turned, and by now you know it’s not really her, but the bell reminds you of the time she took you to the mall to have your picture taken with Santa. She had been high then, too, pulling your arm too hard, dragging you toward the cottony mounds of fake snow while Christmas carols warbled, tinny and too loud, through the speakers. She grabbed the bell out of the hands of the Salvation Army worker clanging for loose change. Santa, santa, we’re here, she had yelled. She pushed through the line, and when you stood before the man in the suit, you looked up to see Santa frowning down at you. Julie’s here to see you, go ahead, tell ’im what you want. She gave you a shove, too hard, and you landed in a sprawl in front of Santa’s boots. A child behind you started to cry. Other children were always crying in response to you and your mom. You closed your eyes and waited for all of it to end. There was the crackle of the security guard’s radio, a voice over your head. Ma’am. Ma’am, there’s a line. You can’t just butt in. Ma’am, you have to go.

That phrase has worked its way back into your brain, into your bloodstream. Ma’am, you have to go, you have to go. Go go go.

Back in the diner, Amanda snapped her fingers in front of your face to get your attention. Earth to Julie. Helloooooo? You owe seven bucks for the bill?

Amanda’s mom picks you up. You are driven home in this clean car, this safe little capsule of steel and glass, and it strikes you as absurd. How protected you are, how completely sectioned off from the ugliness of the world. Is it even real, to live this way? To sleep through the night without hearing glass breaking, a car alarm going off, shouting in the streets? Has this all been one long dream?