Page 14 of Wayfarers

to drown me—perhaps the final one

among a hundred final ones.

In that moment I swore I was done writing

my story in vanishing ink.

Sylvie Hell No

Winslow by the open-air restroom, ripping open

a discarded McDonald’s bag to snarf fries when I finally

clapped hands on him and dragged him back by his collar,

paws akimbo, ketchup on his snout, me so distracted

that when I looked up, I didn’t really process

the crustpunk man looming by my van door

like a guard dog. What that meant. Then I saw him

see me. Saw his eyes widen, him hammer out a warning

on the window and only then did I get

that I was being robbed. Stupid girl. Stupid

sheltered girl, watching herself from above, frozen

as Dawn tumbled out of my van with her arms full

of my things, grinning. If I let Winslow go,

I’d lose him; if I tried to quietly reason with them

I’d be an even bigger fool. Weeks spent wanting

to be invisible and now my only option was to yell

full volume THEY’RE STEALING FROM ME, Dawn passing

my laptop like a football to her boyfriend, Puberty ’Stache Ken,

before slapping me full in the face. She strong-armed me

to the ground and they broke into a full-out run

back to whatever corner of Patchouli Hell they came from

and then I was straight up saved by a Senior Olympian

in a Life Is Good T-shirt, his sturdy wife behind him

blocking the way. Hand it over, he told Dawn. That’s when I saw

the taser. Dawn and Dickface looked at each other