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sit a spell and read the Fairy Containment literature proffered in plastic holders nailed along the railing.
    There are no curious tourists about today, however. Jin-Sang probably scared them away with his frown brow and prune face. The man’s mouth spirals into a cat’s anus when he’s pissed—which is most of the time as far as I can tell. He’s obviously in a mood this afternoon. Playing nice would be a waste of time. Better to come out swinging and hope the “a strong offense is the best defense” theory works in my favor.
    “Sucking on lemons again, Jin?” I ask from the bottom of the steps, smiling when he turns to glare. He hates it when I shorten his name. His brow-crease grows deeper, a canyon where his uni-brow goes to die. “That’ll destroy your tooth enamel.”
    “The office will close in two minutes.” Jin-Sang checks his watch with the requisite amount of drama. “Now … one and a half.”
    “Then why are you out here? Shouldn’t you be inside making sure all the coffee mugs have been washed and put away?” I nearly lost a hand for leaving a lipstick-stained mug by the kitchen sink a couple of weeks ago. Another reason not to bother with makeup: you’re less likely to leave trace evidence at the scene of the crime.
    “I will tolerate you today, but just mostly. Don’t press it, Annabelle.” Jin-Sang was raised in Dallaswith his sister, but you can’t tell it by his creative use of the English language.
    “So … I guess you heard about the murder?” I can’t imagine any other reason he’d be willing to “mostly tolerate” me.
    “I did. I also heard you very closely vomited on the evidence,” Jin-Sang says, descending the steps with sharp jabs of his threatening knees.
    “Yeah.” My beer roils in my stomach and I wish I’d popped a piece of gum. Jin-Sang isn’t afraid to get up close and personal when he’s in a snit, and I don’t want him smelling beer on my breath. I don’t make a habit of drinking on the job. It’s just been … a day. To put it mildly.
    Still, I should’ve waited until after this meeting before declaring it five o’clock somewhere. But the metal walls of the bus had been pressing in more than usual. Almost everyone living in the Delta struggles with anxiety—there’s a reason the medic trucks hand out Xanax like candy when they sweep through a town—but most people have real reasons for it. They aren’t immune, any of the lucky people to get a free pass.
    Too bad having no excuse for the apprehension pricking at your insides doesn’t make it stop. When I was younger, right after the emergence, anxiety had made me a prisoner in the halfway house, a shy freak of a kid who considered ending my own torment … until my new roommate introduced me to vodka. I was a pot girl in my old life, but after Caroline’s deaththe smoke that had once made me giggly and relaxed only made me more paranoid. But alcohol … Just a shot or two and the fear went to sleep—a baby with whiskey slipped into its milk—and I was free to say and do and be the things that anxiety and regret had stolen away.
    “Yeah,” I repeat, tucking my chin to my chest. Jin-Sang stops inches away, hands propped on his hips, carefully manicured nails pressing into his belt so hard the tips turn white. “It wasn’t easy. It was a kid. I knew her. Not well, but … ”
    I keep my eyes on Jin-Sang’s hands, relieved when his white nails flood pink and his breath rushes out with a sympathetic sigh. “Those things are always difficult. But part of the road we’ve been chosen to travel.”
    Jin-Sang is one of the immune who consider themselves blessed by God. He’s a loyal attendee at one of the churches that have popped up like mushrooms on cow shit in Baton Rouge in the past decade, one of the people who shun free tranquilizers and sleeping pills, preferring to shoot up every Sunday and Wednesday with the opiate of the people.
    I haven’t been to church since I left New Orleans. I