An aerosol scent hovered around the whispering girls, who were edging towards me. I wished I had a cigarette. I breathed in a cloud of hair spray and coughed.

“I don’t think so,” the girl said. “You did not just cough your nasty up in here.”

“Sorry,” I said, keeping my eyes down.

“This white bitch say sorry,” the girl said to her friend.

They snickered. One of them came closer, stood right behind me.

“I like your hair,” she said into my ear. I tried not to recoil.

“Hey!” she shrieked. “I’m talking to you!”

“Sorry,” I said. “Thanks.”

The other one edged behind me now. She had a blurred tattoo on her cheek that I couldn’t make out; I didn’t look directly at it. Her eyebrows were plucked and scabbed over and covered in pencil.

“You not being rude to my girl,” this eyebrow person said. “Are you?”

“No,” I said. “Sorry.”

“She say she like your hair.”

“Sorry,” I said again.

I yelped at a sudden sharp sting on my scalp. The girls cackled. The one with the eyebrows held a few strands of my hair.

“What the fuck?” I said.

She twisted my hair in her fists like she could strangle me with it and took a sudden step forward. I jumped back, banging my head on the wall. The girls snickered and reclaimed their corner, whispering to each other. Every few minutes one would say, “What the fuck!” in a whiny white girl voice—it sounded exactly like me. The other one would say “Sorry,” and double over in laughter. I gazed resolutely out through the bars, flinching at every noise behind me.

“Ford,” a lady cop said. She unlocked the barred door. “Come on.”

She motioned down the hall and closed the cell behind us, but I could still hear the crackhead’s muted wail. We stopped at a desk and the cop gave me my purse, sweater, driver’s license. I signed for them and walked into the lobby. Detective Ash leaned against a desk.

“You’re here,” I said. “You came.”

His hand pressed the small of my back and propelled me out the door. I had to close my eyes against the bright lights in the parking lot.

“Jesus,” he said. “I can smell the whiskey.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I mean, for coming. Thank you, you have no idea how much this means to me, in there, it was horrible—” I started to cry.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Did they process you? Get your prints?”

“No,” I said.

“Good, that’s good.”

We headed north. The downtown skyline clumped on the horizon. I relaxed in the seat and rubbed my head where I’d banged it. He exited before my street and parked in front of House of Pies.

“Breakfast?” he said.

“You really don’t have to—”

“Why not. Let’s get some pancakes.”

“I used to come here a lot.”

“Why’d you stop?” he said.

“I realized I hated it.”

He laughed but I was serious. House of Pies is a shithole. We sat in a vinyl booth textured to resemble leather. The place had been done up in orange and brown and yellow—to simulate grease, perhaps. The rips in the upholstery were patched with plastic tape that peeled up and stuck to my legs. We ordered coffee and eggs and strawberry pie piled high with Cool Whip. They brought the pie first. A maraschino cherry leaked red rivulets in the topping. The eggs came. Suddenly I was starving. When had I last eaten? I scarfed the food. Ash stretched his arms along the back of the booth.