It had been easy enough to put on a skimpy dress from Hot Topic and stand close to one of those men for a couple of hours. The alcohol flowed freely and they were so desperate and sad, they always had something to make the time pass—pot, coke, ecstasy, speed—and if they didn’t, Zanne did. Had anyone forced her to leave with them? Not exactly. But could you call it consent when she was tottering in those heels, some guy’s arm around her waist, and she was tired, so tired, and the front seat of his car was a place to sit and the window was a place to rest her head, and she just wanted to close her eyes and forget? She knew what the money was for, those hundreds left on the coffee table in the morning, rationally she did, but also it felt like she’d gotten one over on everyone because she knew something no one else did. This wasn’t her. This wasn’t even precisely her body. The real Zanne was locked away, shut up tight, pounding at the door to go free. And one day, finally, Zanne let her out. She chopped off all her hair and threw away her phone, the one the agency always called her on, and before she had time to panic or change her mind, she packed her car and drove back to Massachusetts.

Fuck Ted if he’d never seen a plan slip through his fingers. Fuck him if he’d never had to choose whose thumb to be under. Vultures circled—a producer, a grip, older men who could’ve set her up or at least paid the light bill—but Zanne refused to go to them for help or cash. She kept her slate clean at Omega, and instead she went to those parties, where strangers tipped her for being pretty, for listening to their tales of woe or smiling when they tried to be funny. If she had to humble herself to make it in this town, she thought, on balance, that it would be better if she didn’t know the men. Maybe she’d been right. Maybe not. Was it a curse or a blessing that the only detail she could clearly recall was a sharp scent, a panicked mix of beer and musk?