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flashing lights.
    Blueredwhite redbluewhitered.
    There’s a clusterfuck of cop cars on the street.
    Another memory. Eleven months ago, the cops smashed my bedroom door, pulled me off my bed and out into the hallway. They slapped handcuffs on my wrists and dragged me down the steps to a silver sedan.
    I turn away from the memory. Spent, I hobble down the hill.
    This side of the mountain is dark. The steps down are uneven, tricky. I remember Sandy’s advice to go slow. I navigate them with help from the city’s blinking, neon light. I don’t know why, but going down the hill becomes easier than going up. Maybe coz you’re going down?
    Each step brings me closer to the Vegas strip. Where, I wonder, who or what awaits.

Chapter 6
    I am hungry. Starving, really. My stomach was about to go cannibal. Turn and devour itself.
    I shove the rolled-up tortillas into my dry mouth. The soft, warm bread wet with butter and stuffed with rice and beans. Mexican food’s never tasted so good. I choke. I forget—burrito numero cuatro in as many minutes. One of the men holds out a water bottle. I take it and suck, hard, till the plastic crinkles. Fluid floods my throat and pushes the food down, into my bloated stomach. I burp. My tummy’s ready to explode. I don’t care.
    The men tug at my clothes. “Jouvencito, cambiate la ropa!” Yeah, I comprende. (I took three years junior high school Spanish.) I ignore them. They tell me I need to change. My clothes, my identity, my everything. I’m sick of people telling me what to do. Another one holds out clothes, stacked and folded. They smell clean.
    I take the clothes and strip. Back in the desert, I ditched my modesty. Or, maybe my modesty went even earlier than that, in Serenity Ridge. Then, it was different: My modesty was
taken
from me. I reset the button, back in the desert. I
chose
to surrender my modesty. I feel a little flicker and my power come back. Yeah, I
chose
.
    I switch trucker hat for safari hat. Blood runs down my leg.The skin’s covered with red dots, crescent shaped, the dog’s teeth marks. I rip off a piece of fabric and wrap it around the flesh wound.
    New outfit, new person? Not really. These clothes couldn’t be any more obvious. Even I know that. The jacket might as well have stenciled RUNAWAY TEEN on the back.
    “Eh! Vamos!”
    The truck slows, the men part the cloth curtains. Below, I see blurred asphalt. Empowered by my paramilitary G.I. Joe getup, I jump, land on a sidewalk and survey the landscape.
    Vegas. The old, bad part.
    I turn. I want to say, Thank you, but the truck’s already gone, merging into traffic. Hand to temple, I salute,
Ciao, Che!
    Inside the bus station, there aren’t any showgirls handing out twofer fliers. I do notice two roaming Rent-A-Cops. Officer Dick and his partner, Head. My heart leaps. DickHead strolls through the lobby. It’s a cross between a city dump, a mental hospital and casino (Totos Los Desperados). Filthy, the floor and wood benches are crowded with bums. Dressed in rags with smudged faces, they all look the same. Anemic light comes from the blinking-bleeping slot machines.
    “San Francisco,” the PA announces. “Boarding, Gate Two.”
    Time is short. If I’m not at Gate Two, and on that bus, then I will be caught. If I’m caught, I will be sent back to Serenity Ridge. And if I go back there, mostly likely I will die.
    I join the line to the ticket window. I look up at the enormous clock looming over the main entrance. The second hand travels over the white face and black Roman numerals. The hand consumes one minute in one second.
    Sweat runs down my neck. Sick or hot? The tourniquet brushes my pant leg. I glance down. Blood’s soaked through the fabric. The stain makes me look like I peed my pants. Yeah, if my dick hung down to my knees.
    My heart, already beating at a quick rat-a-tat-tat rate, speeds up. The Rent-A-Cops walk toward the line. Interesting: Death wears ugly, brown polyester uniforms.
    “Next!” I