Page 61 of Dial F for Finance

The sound is soft.

One hundred dollars of vanilla bean and piped roses giving up quietly in the kitchen where I learned not to ask for too much.

“I should go,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Enjoy the rest of your birthday, Ma. Hails, I’ll call you soon.”

I collect my overnight bag from the living room, ignoring the barbs flying at my back, and step out onto the street and walk until the yelling doesn’t reach my ears anymore.

My chest is tight and the backs of my eyes burn. My head is swimming, brain on fire. But the farther away I get, the looser I feel. I stop and lean against a brick wall, willing my breathing calm.

Maybe I’m a coward. Or maybe I’m finally doing the only sensible thing a person can do when someone throws a birthday cake into a trash can because somehow I’m the ungrateful one.

I stare at a mural across the street—some bright cartoon skyline painted on the side of a laundromat that used to be a pharmacy, because Queens is always becoming something else while insisting nothing has changed. My hands are shaking. Not enough for a stranger to notice and ask if I’m OK. Just enough that when I unzip my bag to find my phone, the metal teeth chatter under my fingers.

There are three missed calls from Hailey.

One text.

Hailey:

I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave without telling me where you are.

Another arrives while I’m looking at the screen.

Hailey:

She’s crying now. Obviously. I hate this house.

My thumb hovers over the keyboard.

Me:

I’m sorry.

I delete it.

Me:

I’m around the corner. I just needed air. Do you need me to come back?

Hailey:

God no. Run! Save yourself!

Love you, big sis

Me:

Love you too.

I stare at the heart emoji until my vision blurs, then I back out of the thread and move my thumb to lock the phone, pausing when I see the unread text I missed.

DO NOT ANSWER:

I know you said you’re fine. I’m choosing to believe you’re a liar. Call me if you need an extraction. Or a felony. I’m flexible.

I lift my hand for the next cab out of habit more than strategy. There is always a next cab in Queens. There is always a way to leave if you keep your bag zipped and your chin up and don’t look back at the house that made you.

A green cab noses toward the curb, and I almost step off.