My head is spinning as I sit in Sam’s car, riding back to our apartment. He has to go to work now, but I’m home for the day since I’m home every day now. He waits until we’re halfway back before he says, “I think you should take the plea.”

“Yes, I know what you think.”

“Frisch knows what he’s talking about.”

I stare out the window, at the storefronts whizzing by. I’ll miss this if I go to jail. If that happens, all I’d see around me are bars and the prison courtyard and guards and…

Oh great, now I’m crying.

“Abby.” His voice softens. “Don’t cry.”

Nope. Still crying. I don’t think I can stop.

It’s funny because I’m not a crier. I never cry. Maybe once a year, I have one big epic cry just to get all my frustration out of my system, then I’m good for the next three-hundred-and-sixty-four days. I hate the loss of control I feel when I’m sobbing. But lately, I feel like a leaky faucet. All I do anymore is cry.

Sam probably thinks it’s from the meth. And maybe it is.

“Listen,” he says gently, “if you want to go to trial, then… let’s do it. Okay?”

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “If I went to jail, you’d move in with Monica.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“You would.”

“Stop it. I wouldn’t.”

I don’t believe him though. I can see in his eyes that he’s done with me. All the kindness is gone. Who could blame him—he thinks I did something horrible.

I wipe my eyes again with my shirt sleeve. I stare out the window again, trying not to think about what’s likely going to happen in the next few days. Jail. I can’t wrap my head around it.

I wonder if they’ll handcuff me. Do they always do that? If I agree to go quietly, do they have to put the handcuffs on? I really don’t want to be handcuffed. It seems so… medieval. Maybe I should just go to the police station and turn myself in. In fact…

Wait.

Holy crap.

“Sam!” I cry. “Stop the car!”

“What?” he says. “Why?”

Fortunately, he’s already slowing to a stop at a red light. The second he comes to a complete stop, I unlock the door and leap out of the car. I don’t even give him an explanation. At this point, I’m sure he’s chalking this up to my erratic drug-fueled behavior. Whatever. This is more important than the possibility of Sam thinking slightly less of me. You can’t get lower than zero, after all.

Or maybe you can. Negative numbers and all. Sam would know about that one.