I shake off the memory and glance behind me again. Ginger and his partner are coming up through the crowd now, and there’s no viable escape route that I can see. Trying to slip between all the prop roots will slow me down too much. There’s a storm drain with a loose grate south of here that’s served me well in the past, but the cops are between me and it.

My pulse kicks up a notch. The contraband in my hat is sewn into the brim, its shape hidden by a thin piece of paperboard, but there’s still a chance they’ll realize the weight of the cap is off and tear it apart to find out why. And if they finally get their proof of what I’ve been dealing in my little black-market niche …

Unthinking in my anxiety, I put a hand in my pocket and curl my fingers around my key. Its teeth bite into my palm: a pain as familiar as breathing. And just like that, the compulsion washes over me like a tidal wave—I need to go back to my loft now, have to be absolutely sure that the dead bolt is drawn and the padlock is secured and no one has broken in during the few hours I’ve been gone. The urge is overpowering, the way it used to be a few years back.

This is vital, it tells me. This is a matter of life and death. You have to be absolutely certain everything is secure.

I did lock the door. My loft is secure. I am ninety-nine percent sure of it.

That’s not enough, it whispers. One percent unsafe is still unsafe.

And the thing is, I know that little voice is lying. I know exactly what’s happening. My therapy made sure of that. But sometimes the urges still feel as inevitable, as absolutely, impossibly necessary as they used to. And sometimes I forget that trying to fight them only makes things worse. Like now, when I’m so focused on trying to logic my way out of my compulsions that I can’t pay attention to the actual danger that’s coming down the street behind me.

I need to take care of this, right now. I squeeze the key tighter, roll my neck, and take a deep breath. Then I tell my OCD: Yeah, maybe I did leave everything unlocked, and maybe someone will break in and steal all my stuff. It’s not impossible. Also, screw you.

The compulsion ebbs, robbed of its fuel now that I’m accepting my fears instead of fighting them. I open my hand and release the key. Finally, I can focus on the actual, real-life trouble at my back instead of my own anxiety. I turn my head to look for the officers.

“When I give the signal, run,” murmurs an unfamiliar voice about six inches from my right ear.