I WAS DONE. No. That wasn’t quite right. I was a hundred miles past done, cresting into the Fjords of Nope, heading for Fuck-That-Ville. The sidewalk was uneven, traffic was moving in the wrong direction, pedestrians kept looking at me like I was an accident about to happen—which, let’s be honest, I probably was—and I was ready to lie down in the street and sleep for a month. Which was exactly why I had to keep going.
