Escaping Reality

my left, I have every reason to focus on what’s important. Like
    answering the question of how much cash I have to survive.
    I pull my wallet from my purse and pull out the card I’d used during
    my life in New York and stare down at it. The desire to claim my cash from
    the bank and know I have it is powerful, but out of the blue, an image of
    Liam comes to my mind. He’s a billionaire, a man who has the money to
    find out anything he wants to know about just about anyone, including me.
    How do I know that whoever is chasing me doesn’t have just as much
    money? What if my cards are all flagged or tracked in some way? I sigh with
    painful resignation and slip my card back into my wallet. If I touch that
    money it has to be on my way out of town, or maybe the country. My gut
    says I should keep my cash card and my old identification that lets me
    withdraw larger amounts in my purse, just in case.
    Removing the new card my handler has given me, I slide it into the
    machine and punch in the code I’ve been given, searching for my balance.
    My name comes up on the account and I wonder how my handler managed
    to set up the account without my signature. My balance is $5000. My new
    rent is $2200, but it’s paid for this month already. I have no idea if I really
    will get more money as promised, and I’m too cautious to assume I will.
    That means I have to hold onto two months’ rent to feel secure until I see
    another cash deposit in this account. That leaves me with $800 to buy
    clothes and food. I’ll need more money to survive. Please let there be more
    money.
    My head begins to spin and I remind myself my handler said he’d
    deposit weekly installments into this account, but when? On what day? Do I
    have utility bills to consider? I remove the card and head into the lobby.
    There is no way I’m letting anyone, not even my handler, track me by my
    card number. I’m withdrawing all the money now.

    ***
    Fifteen minutes later, I’m in a dressing room in a store by the mall,
    wearing a pair of black shorts and a pink tank top, with a cheap, but cute,
    pair of black Colosseum-style sandals on my feet. And what a relief they
    are. In only a few blocks my feet are blistered—or, as my father used to say,
    my dogs are barking. I’m going to take the tags to the cash register and
    wear my clothes out of the store.
    I’m just gathering together several other small items, enough to
    make three cost-effective outfits that I can wash and rotate, when the
    phone in my bag starts ringing. I sit down on the wooden bench against the
    wall and listen to it, fighting the urge to pull it from the bag. I should have
    taken the phone by the hotel first, but the idea of walking into that fancy
    place with my t-shirt and skirt on was too much. And now it’s ringing and it
    can be only one person. Liam. Liam is calling me and I want to answer.
    Without a conscious decision to do so, I reach in my bag and pull out
    the box holding the phone. It stops ringing and starts back up almost
    instantly. I set the box down on the seat and stare at it like it’s some kind of
    alien. It stops ringing again and my stomach twists and turns like rope in a
    tangled mess. I’m a tangled mess. A beeping sound comes next. A message.
    Liam has left a message and I don’t even think. As if I want to prove I am
    indeed a mess, I snatch up the box and open it, punching the message line
    and listening.
    I haven’t heard from you and we both know you’re in some kind of
    trouble. Call me, Amy.
    Don’t text. I need to know you are okay. If I don’t hear from you in the
    next fifteen minutes I’m leaving my meeting and heading to your
    apartment.
    A thunderstorm of emotions rushes through me, and I let the phone
    drop to my lap. Liam is worried about me? He’s going to leave a meeting to
    check on me? He barely knows me. Why would he do that? We both know
    you’re in some kind of trouble. I squeeze my eyes shut, conflicted clear to
    my soul. No one worries about me. No one should know enough to know to
    worry about me. But Liam does. He does and I want him to. I want him. The
    phone starts to ring again and I can barely catch my breath. I have to talk to
    him, and I tell myself it’s not because some deep part of me craves the
    sound of his voice. I have to turn him away and be convincing.
    For him. For his safety. Money can buy things, and even people, but
    it can’t keep him alive. Not from a threat I don’t understand enough