I was abruptly sick of it. Not just tired of it and not just sad about it. But sick of it. Fevered, flushed, shaking. My body readying its defenses to fight off the past that corralled me, the bleak future that beckoned. I want to define Winnie Baker for myself. That’s what I’d told Renata today. Either I meant that or I didn’t. And if I was going to mean it, then I needed to mean it. I set down my fork. “Fuck it,” I said and pulled Steph’s card out of my pocket.
