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multiple coats of chipping paint. Booths upholstered with cracked blue vinyl line the walls, and several wooden chairs are strewn haphazardly across the linoleum floor.
    In the corner a thin girl with shaggy black hair and feather earrings is locked in a heated conversation with a dark-haired boy. She wears a bright red T-shirt; on her arms are telltale track marks. My stomach sinks.
    The girl pushes the boy’s shoulder. “Let me out!” she demands.
    “Taryn, please,” he pleads in a low voice, grabbing her arm. “Just calm down.”
    Taryn sets her jaw, an angry vein throbbing in her temple. “I mean it, Dan. Let me out.”
    The boy sighs heavily, but after a moment he slides over and lets her out. Taryn ducks her head, hiding her face behind her lank hair as she stalks across the bar.
    “That girl has a death wish,” the bartender observes, worry lines creasing his forehead.
    I watch as Taryn shoves open the door and disappears into the night. “Looks like it,” I say.
    The bartender turns to refill someone’s drink, and instantly I am gone, out into the foggy night, my bag in my hand. Standing so quickly makes me dizzy, but my head is clear, and I am suddenly so glad I came inside the bar.
    I’ve known a thousand Taryns—the girls who have nothing left to live for, no will to stay alive. I can spot them anywhere, can smell their desperation. I used to prey on them; without the Taryns, I would not have survived all these years. But only one person will die tonight, I vow. And it won’t be her. Saving Taryn will be a small penance for all the lives I’ve taken.

seven
     
    Taryn is just ahead of me, slipping in and out of view in the thick fog. Lights, flashing red and orange, illuminate her thin frame from behind. She is stumbling, off-balance—drunk, at the very least.
    Keeping to the shadows, I silently follow her as the streets grow closer to the Oakland estuary. There are no other people around, despite the brand-new condos that loom, unsold, over rotting produce warehouses.
    The girl unsteadily approaches one of the steel shipping-container cranes. They look more animal than machine, with four legs and an extension over the water that resembles a head, looking out to sea.
    Taryn begins climbing the ladder, slipping as she grabs the rungs before finally making it to the top. She approaches the edge of the crane, high over the murky water. After a beat I follow, the effort nearly unbearable.
    The wind is strong at the top. It whips my dark hair around my face and muffles my footsteps. I feel unsteady on my feet, but I am determined to get her down.
    “Taryn?” I say softly when I reach the girl. In the past I would have stalked this girl, but now I hope to save her.
    She jerks around, her face registering slight surprise. Her cheeks are sunken, but her eyes are wide-set. She was probably pretty at some point.
    “What do you want?” Taryn asks, hugging her arms around her torso.
    I wait a moment before replying. “Are you going to jump?”
    Taryn exhales, her shoulders slumping. “Why do you care?” Tears shine in her green eyes.
    I search my heart, wanting to say the right thing. But all that springs to mind are six hundred years of platitudes, so I settle on the same question I asked myself when I decided to let myself die: “Do you have a good reason?”
    She turns away from me, and I follow her gaze across the water. The twinkling lights of downtown San Francisco are barely visible through the fog, swirled and smudged like the Milky Way. When I was little, my mother and I used to lie out in the grass behind our house in London and spell my name in the stars, like a celestial connect-the-dots. “ Seraphina” means “angel,” she would tell me . Can’t you see it written in the heavens?
    “Do you have any family?” I ask, stepping close enough to touch her.
    “I don’t have anyone,” she says, the wind lifting her hair behind her.
    I reach out for her thin shoulder. I look deep into her