Jennifer sat on a tall stool in the kitchen, slicing bits of cheese off a block and eating them with crackers, and washing it down with water. She swung her legs in front of the stool and chewed slowly. Now that she’d left the bedroom, the world was unreal, like there was a clear layer of plastic over everything. She looked at her hands. They felt like someone else’s hands. Or, maybe, she dreamed it all and she was just lying in bed. No one was beaten or shot, no one died. It was real, though, and her hand shook so hard the cheese slipped off her cracker and plopped on the table. She carefully scooped it up, took a deep breath and pinched her eyes shut. Every minute, there was another angle, another problem. First it was Elliot trying to drag her off the street, then Grayson trying to drag her out of her home. Now she was eating with the same hands that cradled a dying boy, thinking about break-ins and brothels and drugs. “This is insane,” she said, aloud. “I’m just an English teacher.”
