The playground. The garbage. It’s all there. It’s always been there. Outside of the projects, properly named the Gun Hill Houses.

It’s me outside the projects, just as I was on my return from figurative padded rooms in D.C.

Biopsies, drip IVs. Catheter tubes. Nonsense questionnaires. A rainbow of pastel capsules and pills. Isolation tanks. Electrical charges. High-pressure hoses. Induced headaches. Neon green tracer fluids coursing through the body. Restraints. Merciless fluorescent lighting.

Note that none of this matters now. Disregard it. The System maps out my future movements.

Enter the building. All surfaces are subway-car metallic, reflecting the warped form that is me. Enter the elevator and a cloud of piss and beer. Push the correct button.

All of this is deeply familiar. Exit the elevator, follow the hallway to the correct door. Take out the key. Enter the bedroom. Pistol is drawn.

Stanley hovers in a darkened corner, a shadow. Blinks his single eye.

Iveta/Jovana sleeps beneath a worn sheet.

Watch the sheet rise and fall. Rise and fall.

Two options, both simple and easily done. Either way it ends badly for me.

I choose option B. Lift the gun. Engage the safety.

I take the page from Jovana’s file out of my pocket, unfold it, and set it beside the mattress. Place the key to the apartment on top of it. On the back I have written: Jovana. FBI/INTERPOL knows. I know. Time to go.

Take a last look at her. She appears so small. I can only see the top of her head.

On my way out, I withdraw the plastic bag from the bathroom vent. Avoiding the mirror, knowing who I’ll see there.

Close the door behind me, quiet as possible.