But the answers I read were much more real: I’d wear whatever I wanted without the fear of being perceived as “asking for it”; I’d be able to take the subway at night alone instead of spending money on Uber; I wouldn’t have to pretend to talk on the phone when taking a cab solo at night; I wouldn’t be afraid to run after dark with headphones on.

That’s why I liked this route, where you’re never more than twenty feet from a doorman, bored and tired, with one eye on the door as he watches The Office on his phone. Where you can travel from security camera to security camera without even a blink of static in between. Where something could still happen—anything could happen—but at least someone would hear you scream.

On my way back south, I stopped short on the corner of 80th Street, out of breath as a memory snapped into my head, leaving as quickly as it had arrived: The wind in my face. The small hairs tickling my forehead. Ruthie’s face glowing in the light of the moon. I pushed back the thought, stuffing it into the far crevices of my brain that I don’t have time to visit right now. That’s where emotions live. Because emotions create mistakes. The mistakes that keep me awake and running in the middle of the night.

I continue to 72nd Street and sneak into the twenty-four-hour CVS on the corner and walk through the store with tunnel vision until I find a family-sized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and a box of M&M’s ice cream sandwiches. I can’t hide my purchases the same way I could when stores still gave out plastic bags. Now I carry them with confidence down the block, one item in each hand, hoping that anyone who sees me—not that there’s anyone around—would think I’m buying it for a party or something.

I use my keycard to enter the service entrance, not wanting to bother Danny or let him glimpse The Afterward. I climb up twenty-four flights of stairs, one final requirement to allow what comes next. If, at any point, I can’t do it anymore—if my thighs turn to Jell-O, or I can’t catch my breath—and I take the elevator, everything I just bought goes straight down the garbage chute. I’m so desperate for this, it feels like I’m itchy from the inside out. Jamming a Dorito into my face is the only thing I can think about as I climb. It takes everything in me not to open the bag right then, offer my body some sustenance to finish the journey up, but I don’t.