I write a note to Hasan’s girlfriend and put it in my pocket. I switch hoodies with Marty; it’s a little baggy, but it makes me look different in case anyone took my picture before. I leave the guys, go to the car, and get our pizza box. I’m ready. No, I’m not. I mean, what am I doing? I’m walking to a terrorist’s door with a pizza box! It’s like I’m in a dream. My feet are moving on their own; I can’t stop them. So many times, things look easy, then turn into something else—like that trip to Hermit Island. Or go out of control—like with Mr. Bernstein in the can. Or like now. Am I going to die? Why can’t we know the end of things at the beginning? I’m at the blue door. Hasan’s place is Apartment Four, but I can’t let anyone guess that’s where I’m going. I press buzzer five and hope whoever’s there will let me in. I wait. I want to run, but I’m caught in this wave; it’s dragging me out, I can’t stop it. I press the buzzer again. Breathe. I’m not doing anything wrong.
