I should tell the cops this: I saw the knife in the grass. It must have fallen when I handed her China’s coat.

The knife was in the grass like a silver dagger, and should I tell the cops this: I saw her take the knife from the grass.

I thought, Let her have it. It can be an inheritance, a gift, an award for those who never ask for weaponry.

We crossed the forbidden border, into the Red Zone.

All I really remember is that she told me the cops were looking for her because she started a fire in her foster home. She sliced the knife through the chain around her neck and the toothbrush fell to the ground, the dirty toothbrush I’d once seen her suck like candy. She said she’d seen the knife before. Some girl named Tahiti showed it to her in the bathroom of Kwon Tung’s.

What did you think of her? I asked, nervously.

Tahiti? She seemed pretty jaded.

Jaded: I didn’t even know what the word meant. I thought it was the smooth green stone we sold at the tourist store.

Maybe she knew the word because her father sent her letters from places I’ve never been. Maybe that’s why she didn’t say all the words I was sick of: suck and man and slut. Jeans and fur and fuck. Keggers and smokes and party on.

I saw the blade in her hands, now glistening with rain. It looked like silver and tears.

She flicked the blade and stabbed the air, again and again. I had my first kiss tonight, she said, before you found me in that bedroom. Have you been in love yet?

Before I could answer, she thrust the blade forward as if she wanted to kill the sky.

We can go to my house, I said, remembering suddenly the floral sheets and the flowers on the family china and the pale petals on the lilac trees. I had this instinct that I should get her off the streets where everyone hated her. I wanted her safe, even though I wasn’t the savior kind.

I would write my dad and tell him to come home. Seamus would cook her pancakes and she could sing for him and they could exchange stories about living life as a fugitive.

Let’s go home, I said, but the word made her cringe.

I don’t go home, she said. We’re going to Greece. Come on!

I didn’t argue. I couldn’t argue with Justine. Her eyes with their delicate look, and her holding herself, and shivering and starting to run, run away from me.

I caught up with her, and we walked into the King’s.

The barroom smelled like tires. Brawny men in black leather vests, mustached men in flannel shirts and cowboy hats, their faces red and swarthy and devilly.