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that put me on a Boeing 767 because it had the lowest mechanical failure rate in the fleet. Even with that security, I’d had a full-blown panic attack as I’d boarded. The airline crew had forced me to deplane, thereby delaying the flight and raising the ire of a number of vocal passengers, who would have, I’m sure, been much more understanding if they’d known my real name and remembered me from the newsstands. I’d had to wait six more hours at the airport before the paramedics were convinced I could keep it together enough to get on a later flight.
    This time my rigid aircraft requirements put my detour through Phoenix, and the circuitous route would take me a full twelve hours, six hours longer than was strictly necessary for efficiency’s sake, but nevertheless utterly required for my mental condition.
    I packed light but well. The next day, as I clicked my suitcase shut, I felt, once again, fully prepared. Ready. Sure of my mission. And then, as had happened last time, right before walking out the door, I felt that old familiar feeling—thoughts spinning, chest tightening. I fought it back, but as I struggled for breath, I made my way back to my bedroom, over to the white-painted bureau.
    I pulled out the bottom drawer, the one I never looked in anymore, and dragged out a battered blue photo album. It fell open naturally to a page in the center, and in the upper-right-hand corner, under the peeling laminate, there she was, Jennifer, at thirteen.
    Above her unconvincing smile, her eyes looked sad, as they alwayshad in the years after the accident. She looked serious, as if she were thinking hard. I was standing next to her, leaning over, caught there with my mouth open, talking to her animatedly. She was lost in her own world, and I hadn’t even noticed.
    I studied the picture of myself at that age. Despite our fears, I looked so confident, happy even. Now, sitting safely in my room, if I leaned back on the rug, I could see myself at thirty-one in the mirror over the bureau. My sharp, angular features had been softened somewhat by age, but my dark brown hair was the same shoulder-length no-muss-no-fuss bob I’d had since high school. My brown eyes looked nearly black against my pale skin that had only the pink flush of panic to infuse it with life. I looked distraught, even when I forced a smile back at myself. No wonder they deliver up the shrink to my door, I thought, looking at the frightened creature staring back at me.
    Slowly I stood up, and as I started to replace the album, I paused and pulled out that one photo of the two of us. I tucked it into my wallet and picked up my bag. Then I pushed the album far to the back, carefully closed the drawer, and smoothed my clothes. Jim was right. I did need some fresh air. I collected my things, double-checked my flight time and number, and put into my bag the sandwich I had wrapped earlier. I could do this.
    It was only as I triple-locked my apartment door from the outside, with my bright red suitcase at my feet, that I remembered I hadn’t called Dr. Simmons. Well, I shrugged, McCordy will tell her, and then we can talk about my avoidance strategies for three or four sessions. Nothing like a new narrative to keep the relationship alive.

CHAPTER 6
    I had never lost the trick of closing my eyes to shut out reality, and I spent most of my flight to Oregon with my cheek pressed against my inflatable pillow. The stewardess supposed I was sleeping, so other than the routine seat belt checks, she had left me alone. I had felt the anxiety rising up in my throat as the plane took off, but knowing I didn’t have time to waste with airport medics, I swallowed it back.
    In truth, though, I didn’t sleep at all. My heart was beating faster than ever. The sights and sounds of travel were overloading my brain, which hadn’t taken in this much visual and aural information at once in five years. But it was more than that. My mind was racing as I was hatching my plan.
    It