SEVENTY-THREE

The nurse in the prison infirmary wanted to stitch the cut, but I refused, not wanting to spend any more time there than I had to. She closed it with a butterfly bandage and urged me to reconsider getting the stitches.

I left without saying a word.

My flight back to San Diego was delayed. I sat in the airport fingering the bandage and trying not to watch the news coverage on the overhead television monitors, most of it focusing on Simington’s impending execution, now hours away. The crowd outside the prison had multiplied since I’d left.

Two hours behind schedule, the airline personnel finally boarded us. I slid into my window seat.

It was dark now outside, the tiny runway lights blinking as we taxied. The plane paused as we positioned for takeoff.

San Francisco had not been kind to me. It wasn’t the city’s fault, but I would always associate it with the ugliest time in my life.

My breathing sped up. I tried to slow it, but I couldn’t.

The plane accelerated, pressing me back into my seat.

My fingers went to the bandage, feeling the gauze and tape and what Simington had done to me. And to Darcy and to Liz.

We lifted off the ground and I felt it all—all of the things that I’d gone through the last few weeks—catch me like a sucker punch from an invisible fist. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to push it away.

The plane angled upward and turned.

I opened my eyes and looked out the window, the tears obscuring everything I was saying goodbye to.