WHEN SHE came to, she was alone. The fluorescents buzzed above her head, and her first thought was that she was in a hospital, on her back, looking up at the harsh light as if she were under some kind of examination.

Turning her head to the side, she smelled urine and threw up. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Lucretia struggled to her feet. Still drunk, she tried to steady herself on the concrete wall that seemed to bend away from her instead of providing the stability she needed. Her eyes searched the grooved blocks of the concrete as if a clue might be hidden there that would help make sense of the previous night.

Suddenly the sound of her own breathing scared her, as if to further emphasize how alone she was. A red exit sign buzzed wearily at the end of the corridor, and Lucretia made her way toward it, sliding her feet across the floor. She stretched out her arms and let her fingers drag in the wake of concrete walls, assuring herself they existed and that she did in fact still have one foot planted in reality.

More and more she felt as if she was unable to determine the present from shards of memories, or imaginations—she wasn’t sure which. Only that the days of complete lucidity were losing the battle, and inch by inch she was pushed farther from the ability to save herself. Reaching the exit, she pushed hard against the door, and it opened reluctantly, its metal bottom scraping the concrete with an abrasive sound that sent a needle of pain to the inner sanctuary of Lucretia’s brain.

The cool air engulfed her, awakening her senses. It was raining. She stood transfixed by the cars driving by, an endless procession of wheels spitting up gravel and mud as they rumbled through the puddles on the street. Drivers behind foggy windows and frantic windshield wipers stared straight ahead, oblivious of her.

Lucretia had always felt that her yarn of life ran quickly over the shears, every second fraying more fibers, leaving—even at the age of sixteen—but a few taut filaments inexplicably still holding on.

Suddenly she was aware of a cold draft through the back of her jeans. Reaching around, she felt a long rip up the seat. Mindlessly she rolled the frayed ends between her fingers as she looked up into the gray sky. Thankful for the tank top she had on underneath, Lucretia slipped out of her gray sweatshirt and tied it around her waist. As she double-knotted the sleeves around her front, she noticed blood smeared where her hands had done the knotting. Bending to the curb, Lucretia swirled her hand in the gutter and, satisfied to see the blood gone, dried it on the front of her jeans.