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with that.
    Docia could almost feel the frost as it grew on every blade of grass around her. The cold made her recently abused body ache, but again she accepted it as happy signs that she was alive. She had no argument against it. Not today, anyway. Perhaps, over time, she would once again take all these nuances of life for granted, she would fall away into complaints and grumbling about cold or wet days; but then again, perhaps she wouldn’t. Or at least, she hoped not. She hoped she would never take even the simple ability to breathe in for granted ever again.
    And perhaps this new attentiveness to everything around her was what enabled her to sense that someone was shadowing her. At first she shrugged it off when the smattering of streetlamps showed nothing to support her paranoia, but only minutes later she felt overwhelmed by the sensation that prickled up and down the back of her neck, forcing her to pay attention to her instincts.
    She supposed she ought to have been less obvious about it, been smoother and slick, like some gorgeous heroine in a spy movie who always managed to look perfectly coiffed and stylishly dressed as she made a mysterious drop to an equally mysterious and stylish hero. But she was still battered and bruised and, as earlier noted, had been forced to wear a puffy jacket that had gone out of fashion two years earlier, so suave and cool really were a waste of her time. She craned her neck around, searching for whatever or whoever was giving her this sense of hyperawareness. Maybe there was no one. Maybe her paranoid brother was rubbing off on her. Ormaybe those random assholes who thought shoving innocent girls off bridges made for good fun had come to find her and wanted to drag her to the nearest bridge and try again.
    By the time she had the last thought, she was breathing hard, feeling a little panicky and a lot alone in the cold darkness of the night. Everything that had been so comforting a moment ago seemed reckless and vastly dangerous, and she began to regret walking away from the safety of her home. Her heart was throbbing in her chest, clamoring near her still-bruised lungs. Everything, every nuance of it, reminded her of how weak she still was, of how vulnerable she was … now and even before all of this. The difference was, she had been highly ignorant of it before. She’d had all of that ignorance unceremoniously removed from her.
    She turned back. Her casual stroll had taken her only a block and a half away. Too far. What if … ?
    Docia barely made it two steps before she saw the stranger on the street. Or maybe he was one of her familiar neighbors and her state of panic was making him look ominous. It didn’t matter. She had no interest in finding out either way. She was breathing hard, her breath curling out of her in long, frosty plumes, and she put energy into her steps, holding on to the belief that if she acted as though she knew what she was doing, knew how to take care of herself, it would somehow protect her from any dangers, real or imagined, on her quiet suburban and historical street.
    Still, she glanced his way too frequently. She could barely make him out as he moved around the edges of the light, his slower, longer stride making him look too much like a stalking beast for her imagination’s peace of mind. Why didn’t he cross through the light? Why move purposefully around it? The only reason she could conceive of was that he didn’t want to be seen or identified, and that understanding made sickness swirl in Docia’s stomach. She hurried toward home, but even if she made it to her tiny house, there was no Jackson there to protect her. She had sent him out, sent him away.
    She was clearly a moron.
    You should have at least kept the guy with the gun
close by for a few more days,
her inner voice said dryly. This wasn’t the new voice, this was the familiar voice of sarcasm she’d always used against herself throughout her life. Honestly, she could use a bit of