She turned down the alley between Mulberry and Ohio Streets that she used as a shortcut, but as soon as she’d made the turn into the deserted alley she realized she was out of view of neighbors or drivers or anyone else who might help her if she needed it. She kept her stride even and tried to control her breathing as she pulled her book bag across her chest like a shield.

Her loafers were still slapping the pavement, but now she could hear another set of footsteps behind her. How far behind, she couldn’t tell, and she was now too scared to turn around. Her anxiety prickled across the back of her neck and her breath had shortened to terrified spurts. The footsteps behind her quickened, and she could tell they were getting closer. She kept moving forward, but reached her right hand into her book bag and wedged her finger into the crevice between the Spray Net canister and its lid, pushing until the lid popped off. She then closed her fingers around the canister as the footsteps came up right behind her. Don’t wait, don’t wait, just do it. Do it now!

In a flurry of jerky movements Charlotte pulled her arm from the book bag and whipped around.

“Get awaaaaaaay!” she shouted as she pressed down hard on the nozzle of the Spray Net.

The aerosol went full-force into the face of the person behind her, and she heard an agonized cry and a loud “FUCK!” before she dropped the can and took off at a scramble down the alley and around the corner, moving as fast as her black pencil skirt would allow. She didn’t stop running until she had shuffled up the porch steps, fumbling with the doorknob and then flinging open the door and slamming it shut behind her.

Her heart was beating its way out of her chest and her eyes zeroed in on the telephone sitting on the side table next to the couch. Would that be too rash? Hysterical? Calling for help? She hadn’t exactly been attacked, had she? Charlotte stalked into the kitchen and peered out the window at the backyard, her arms wrapped around her chest as her eyes darted from the hedges to the back shed and beyond into the neighbors’ yards. Going back into the living room, her heart still pounding, she looked out the front window. She didn’t know what to do next, but the nagging pressure on her bladder steered her toward the bathroom.

She shot another look at the front door and then the telephone. Should she call someone? The police? Her mother? She imagined what they would ask her. What did he look like? Could you tell us what he was wearing? And she had no idea. But it had been a “he.” That was the only thing she was sure of. She went to the hallway bathroom and locked herself in, feeling some comfort in the narrow, enclosed space. Could it have been Max Zimmerman? Could she have just Spray Netted Max Zimmerman?