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sex.
    “No,” I answer, sitting up. He tugs my hand, pulling me back to the mattress with him.
    “Please, Greta. Just once. Stay.” His eyes plead with mine but I don't feel what he feels. I take his face in my hands and kiss him before shaking my head no.
    Standing, I tug my clothes back on before showing myself out. He doesn’t speak a word until the door shuts behind me. Then I hear him curse repeatedly. A decade in my profession coupled with my childhood has left me so fatigued. My head and heart war with each other, struggling to find common ground. I’m ashamed at the way I use Hoot, but only because I desire a partner in life but know it’s not him. It could never be him. He would never understand the atrocities I’ve survived. He’d never understand how I function on a very basic level.
    Unless you’re in my profession, you couldn’t possibly understand me deeply enough to proceed with romantic interest. Truths would always be a shade of gray and the word “killer” would always nag them. I’m not so naive to think that one can have a relationship without trust. Yet trust is the one thing I cannot afford in my professional life. Unfortunately, my professional and personal worlds are synonymous.
    The drive home is silent. Surprise, surprise. Solidarity is the air I breathe. Being alone with my own notions always results in a profound silence. Pulling up to my apartment, I feel deflated; it is not exactly what I consider a home. I haven’t had a true home since I was eight years old, but I’m content to be here because it’s the closest thing to a home that I have.
    Four apartments throughout the country--all in desirable areas, bustling with life--and the one I connect with most is the most recent location in a small town with small town people. I trudge up the two flights of stairs, unlock the door, and toss my purse on the couch before heading to the bathroom. Turning the shower on as hot as it will go, I wait as the bathroom fills with steam. I strip naked, step in, and let the hot water pour down upon my tired body. I begin to cry. Home , I can’t even remember where it was. I can’t remember what my parents look liked, smelled like, or sounded like.
    “Do you know why you’re here?” the lady with the tight bun asks. This must be her office. It’s large and the furniture is all dark and oversized.
    “No.”
    “Because your parents needed money,” she says.
    “Okay,” I answer flatly. I don’t really know what that has to do with me. We’ve always been a needy family. Mama works three jobs and Pop doesn't really leave the house unless he needs cigarettes or beer.
    “Do you understand?” she asks, cocking her head sideways.
    “I guess.” I shrug. “Mama’s always saying we need more money.”
    “Your parents sold you.” She pauses. Her words sink in. “To me,” she finishes. This doesn’t make any sense. I’ve always been a good girl. Mama wouldn't sell me. Tears prick the backs of my eyes. I have a feeling in my belly I’m not supposed to cry, though, so I hold them back.
    “You are now called Thirty-three. Welcome to Ravenbrook. This is my school. You are lucky to be here. The school is special. We will teach you how to be the best at what we do,” she continues. I’m still stuck at Mama sold me. Nothing makes any sense. Mama looked scared when the men showed up in their fancy black car to collect me. She gripped my hand tight. Pop told her it was one of the best schools in the country. I know that is the only reason she let go of my hand. I wasn’t allowed to take anything with me. I’d fallen asleep during the long drive and when I woke up I was in my room here.
    Disoriented.
    “That’s not my name,” I shout at the mean lady.
    “It is now. You will forget everything, in time, about where you came from and you will answer to Thirty-three.”
    “My Mama is probably on her way right now and she’s going to be real mad when she finds out what you’ve done,” I