You idiot, a voice inside me chastised. You’re a few blocks away. Get off your ass and get it.

That logic made perfect sense, of course. Until I looked out the window.

The same fear I’d had earlier returned. The cars moving along Queen Anne Avenue seemed too fast, the wind stirring the trees too strong, the people on the sidewalk too dangerous. How could I go out there? How could I put myself at risk? Better to stay in here where it was safe.

And yet . . . how could I wait around? I was going to go crazy if I sat here. Glancing down at Aubrey, I saw her watching me with her green eyes. She had that infinitely wise look cats had sometimes. It wasn’t exactly encouraging, but it soothed me a little.

Okay. I could do this.

I found my coat and started to shape-shift my messy hair into a neat arrangement—except, of course, I immediately realized I couldn’t shape-shift it. Not a problem, I assured myself. I did my hair all the time when I wasn’t in a rush. This was no different. With a quick dash to the restroom, I brushed my hair into a sleek ponytail and prepared to face the world.

Stepping outdoors, I was blasted with stimuli. I stood on the steps to my building, shell-shocked and unable to move. This had never happened to me. Never, never had I been afraid of the world. I’d always rejoiced in it and been eager to see what it had to offer. Slipping my hand into my purse, I reached for my cigarettes, seeking them like a safety blanket. When I took them out, I realized something else. I wasn’t necessarily immune to them anymore. This stasis probably wouldn’t last long . . . but how could I risk it? How could I expose myself to carcinogens when I had no idea how vulnerable I truly was?

Putting the cigarettes back, I took a deep breath and plunged forward.

The distance to the store was barely three blocks, but it felt like miles. I walked as far away as I could from traffic and flinched each time someone passed me. When I finally reached the intersection to cross over to Emerald City, I was sweating. Queen Anne Avenue is not an overly crazy road. This particular spot had three lanes and steady traffic, with a moderate speed of 30 (which meant people could usually be found going 35–40).

Nonetheless, standing there, I might as well have been trying to cross I-5 itself, with five lanes racing in each direction. The crosswalk was red, giving me time to build up courage and remind myself that I’d crossed here hundreds of times—jaywalking more often than not. I was being irrational, freaking out at things I had no business worrying about. The light dinged and gave me the go-ahead.