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plans?”
    The question had no doubt been part of her training, so it wasn’t the girl’s fault. But the delivery came with the prepackaged assumption that there was no suffering in the world. Maybe that’s what coffee shops sold. The idea that everything was okay, at least here, in this moment. It kinda worked.
    Jude picked up her cup in its paper sleeve. “My big plan is to drink this latte and eat this brownie.”
    For some reason, her response evoked a flicker of interest before the girl moved on to prepare the next drink and ask the next person about plans.
    Jude found an empty table near a plant-filled window and opened the paper to the back pages.
    Bringing the forkful of brownie to her mouth held all the majesty of a spiritual awakening, and when the dessert made contact with her tongue, she felt the release of endorphins.
    How could certain foods make a person feel better? Instantly better?
    While savoring the brownie, she perused apartment rentals. Borrowing a pen from the cash-register counter, she circled a few prospects.
    Like a regular person. Was it that easy? To return to real life?
    One of the ads stuck out. No background check. No references. Located on Chicago Avenue South, two blocks from Powderhorn Park.
    She returned the pen and asked about a pay phone.
    The kid at the register stared at her. “I think I saw one in a movie once.”
    That got a slow smile out of Jude. It might have been her first smile since her escape, maybe her first smile in years, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it.
    He noticed the City Pages in her hand, folded to the circled ads. “Here.” He pulled out his cell phone. You can borrow this.”
    She put the paper down on the counter, made the call, set up a time, handed the phone back. “Thanks.”
    “Have I seen you somewhere?”
    It would be like this for a while. Her face must have been plastered everywhere at one time, and with her recent escape making local and national news . . . “It’s possible” was all she said.
    He pushed the paper toward her. “Powderhorn? You don’t wanna go there.”
    “Why not?” She’d always liked the Powderhorn area. It was one of those neighborhoods that had spent years fighting a bad reputation, deserving and undeserving.
    “That place was rough before the increase in crime, but now? Businesses have folded, and a lot of the houses are empty. Vandals cleaned everything out. Like gutted the homes, stripped them to the studs to get the copper wire. You should be looking in Tangletown. Or maybe around Lake Harriet. Uptown is still okay too.”
    Both Tangletown and Lake Harriet would most likely be out of her price range, and Uptown was too hip, too noisy, too claustrophobic. “Thanks for the warning. And thanks for the phone.”
    A few blocks away, she caught a city bus to Powderhorn and the apartment where she’d arranged to meet the building manager.
    The kid at the coffee shop had been right. As the bus chugged down familiar streets, past record stores and cafés and vintage shops, evidence of neglect was everywhere. Some of the windows were covered in plywood, graffiti, and band posters, and many of the spaces looked empty. Even the four-story brick apartment building, when Jude found it, gave off a deserted vibe.
    “Washer and dryer in the basement.” The building manager, a guy named Will Sebastian, stood with muscular arms crossed, watching her examine the advertised space. He had long hair tied back in a ponytail, a leather vest, a beard, and tinted aviator glasses. He was big and burly, with tattoos on his neck and fingers that looked prison grade. He smelled like old sweat and cigarettes, his body odor having taken on that heavy stench that came with winter.
    As advertised, the apartment was on the top floor. Nobody would be dancing above her head. One bedroom, the living room and kitchen combination separated by a breakfast counter and three stools. A lot of sunshine pouring in, and shades that could be pulled