And it was. The thought of nursing school gave me such a feeling of purpose. Wearing all that white, I would feel pure. The scars and the tar, the bushes and Bacardi bottles, the taste of Dirk Wallace, the sight of silent blood from a razor blade, all of these would fade forever when I donned my white uniform. In my soft white-soled shoes, I would tend to wounded men just like Everly. My mother used to comfort men with bullet wounds and acid flashbacks. I knew I could do the same. When I bandaged wounds, I’d whisper, Everything will be fine.

They all get gold stars for ridding me of my antisocial tendencies. Take me off the streets where I met thieves and whores. Put me in a home where I can watch Dynasty and eat steak.

The Mickelsons, Hazel said, are a wonderful family. They live in Gordon Head.

Broken locks and bruised knees and borrowed lip gloss and rain on the streets.

Ivy Mercer lived in Gordon Head. She lived in a mansion high on a cliff. Maybe she lived next door to the Mickelsons.

Hazel had files stacked on her desk. I wasn’t tempted to see whether she had one on Justine. It seemed so strange to me that you could have this image in your mind, as present as a cross of hope worn around the neck, and then you could just let it go.

Hazel opened a file.

She handed me a map.

This is the Red Zone, she said, and there it was. The streets of downtown, Yates and Douglas and Pandora and Government shaded in red while the rest of Victoria was redless and white.

These maps are usually given to girls on probation, Hazel said, but I would still like you to stay out of the Red Zone. And I’d like you to have no contact with any of these people.

She handed me a list. Geronimo Thomas, Luce Tathers, Michael John Burns…I didn’t know any of those guys. They were probably pimps.

I just want to be a nurse, I said. I don’t want to go downtown anymore. I want to live in Gordon Head.

Good. And do something positive for yourself, Sara.

Like what?

Get involved in the Y. Join the drama club.

Sure, I said.

But secretly I was thinking that Hazel wasn’t too bright, because if she knew what I knew, her eyes would be full of tears and she would never presume recreational activities could be my remedy.

Hazel said the Mickelsons were expecting me for supper. At 6:00, she said. Gillian makes a mean steak. Don’t be late. They’re expecting you.

She wrote their address and phone number on my map: 3765 Houlihan Lane.

I will. Be a good girl. I will. I will.

You’re an easy case, she said. I wish all my girls were so ready for change.

You believe me?

Of course I do.