I probably shouldn’t say this, considering, but I loved the knife right away. I might as well have been Sleeping Beauty, and the knife the kiss of a prince. My new knife was so much better than my corkscrew ensemble. Silver and smooth, the long blade shone. The blade was a skinny dagger, sharp and fine. I touched it for a while, and then I flipped the blade back into the whatever it’s called, the color of which, I think, is called opaline.

Take it, man, she insisted. Not that you need it, but you never know, right?

Don’t you want it?

I don’t need it anymore. I’m leaving this shithole!

With that, she stood up and started ruffling my hair, tickling me, doing her best to make me laugh.

Suddenly I realized she saw me as a little sister, a high school girl. I wasn’t the savior; she was the one who offered the real comfort, the necessary help.

Keep my clothes too, she said. Keep the dress. Keep the fur. Keep the boots. My shit suits you more than those stupid fucking long johns you were wearing yesterday.

Though I’ve never hugged another girl, I wanted to hug China. How did she know that I’d wanted a new knife ever since I’d lost mine? A knife like this, I never could have got on my own. It was probably from a pawnshop, secondhand or—even better—contraband. I grinned at her as I slipped the knife into my boot. It was too big for my bra. I could feel it, safe and solid, as we walked over the roofs and reached the last building on Yates Street. Pale gray smoke was churning out of a rising, immense silver chute. Behind the chute, there was a sleeping bag and a bottle of shampoo. Hey, Athena, China screamed, her voice impatient and almost furious. Hey, Natasha. There were no tears on her clean face, but she really looked like she was going to cry.

Where is everybody? I kind of wanted to say good-bye.

When you walk toward the bus station, all of a sudden, you’re in fairy-tale land. Hit the tourist part of town, and you’re on cobblestone streets. Flowers and British flags bursting up all over the place. The pride of the town, the ancient Empress Hotel, is covered in ivy. Carriages drawn by white horses clop by. The streets smell like Earl Grey tea and horse manure.

Tourists love this shit, China said. Someone tell me why.

Myself, I could never understand the appeal of walking around a fake, old-fashioned British town. Supposedly, most tourists come from hectic, filthy cities and they’re grateful for Victoria because it seems quaint and polite. Ye Olde England, that’s what we’re supposed to be.