“It’s too far. Okay, I know. Go to the back of the library, by the other parking lot. Cross over to the gas station. Go into the ladies’ room and lock yourself in. Don’t answer your phone, even if it’s your mother or Ada. Not just now. Okay? Promise me. And don’t open the door for anyone but me. If someone calls to you while you’re in there, make like you’re puking. Just say you’re sick. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Is this bad? Did I do the wrong thing?”

“No. It’ll be okay. Go now, sweetheart. Go fast.”

•  •  •

At the back of the gas station, the ladies’ room seemed like a terrible place to hide. The heavy, rust-flecked door was kicked in at the bottom corner, bent like someone else had gotten the same idea once and it hadn’t gone well. The metal collar on the doorknob spun and clattered when she turned it.

Things weren’t much better on the inside. A brass latch and a ragged do-it-yourself hole drilled into the jamb took the place of the bolt that no longer lined up to its slot. It looked like it had been salvaged from a boat wreck.

Carly slid the latch home and twisted the little tab lock in the handle, but wasn’t sure it caught on anything. She retreated to the middle of the tiled floor. And waited.

The air was humid and vivid with the smell of wintergreen over plumbing problems. The ceiling pressed down like a low lid and held everything tight under its seal. No sound got back into this corner of the thick-walled building. She could hear herself swallow and breathe, and nothing else.

The painting made the bag heavy and lopsided. The floor was gross enough that she thought all the way to how she would feel about picking the bag up again if she set it down. Instead, Carly hugged it to her chest, redistributing its awkwardness. Her bare arms sweated against the slick fabric.

Her phone rang. The bag slid down from her new one-armed grip as she scrabbled for her pocket. The corner of the painting inside the bag scudded along her shin and jabbed the base of her big toe as it settled.

Her mother was calling. The longing to talk to her seared through Carly like pain. She didn’t know what John had told her. Carly didn’t know if her mother was mad at her. Or worried. Maybe she should answer, just to at least tell her side of the story. But she couldn’t. She’d said she wouldn’t. She wanted to. No.

There was a muted jingle and someone turned the doorknob and the door thudded against the clattery latch. The phone stopped ringing.

Whoever it was pushed on the door again.