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step to the narrow metal counter. A prissy clerk sitsbehind the thick plate glass partition. Name tag. Randy. Randy gives me a look that’s a cross between recognition (“Girllllll!”) and hate (jealous that I get to walk around in public wearing this butch getup). Randy wears a gold wedding band.
    “Destination?”
    “First,” I want to ask, “does your wife know you’re gay?”
    “San Francisco.”
    Randy is Mormon, has eight kids, and wants to come with.
    “Round trip or one way?”
    “One way.”
    “ID.” His voice is flat, inhuman. I look close: robot? Or, Tom Cruise?
    I reach into my back pocket. Empty. The wallet’s gone! Panic in the disco. It’s in the pants I left in the truck.
    “I—I—I’m sorry. I can’t find it.”
    “Can’t sell you no ticket without ID.”
    “I have money. Cash. See—”
    “Don’t matter.” Randy purses his lips. He loves this. Finding a reason to say no. “Step to the side. Next?”
    “But—” I check the other pocket. There. The wallet.
    “There a problem?” The Rent-A-Cops loom, human book-ends or gladiators with prefrontal lobotomies.
    Much as I hate these two minimum-wage morons, I know they can stop me—from buying the ticket. And I need that ticket to get on the bus. And I
must
get on that bus. Because I cannot stop moving. Because if I stop for even one second, I will die. Forward momentum being everything right now.
    I ignore Officer Dick and Head. The LAPD drop-outs won’t take the hint. They don’t move. Death is a stubborn SOB.
    I focus, remove the wallet, open it and slide out the (fake) ID. I drop the plastic rectangle on the metal tray. My hands shake: Parkinson’s or paranoia, I need to get a grip.
    Randy takes the ID without looking at it, fingers flying over a keyboard like a concert pianist’s.
    “How are you paying for this, sir?”
    Sir?
And I thought I was cast to play “boy” for the next fifteen years.
    “Oh—”
    Out the corner of my eye, Rent-A-Cops move, hands on holsters. Death is armed and moves in sync. Death is careful, watching my every move.
    I kneel, lift the camouflage pants and unzip the kicks’ velcro side pouch. Birthday money. It arrived that day, right before I was “sent away.”
    I found the plain white envelope, no return address, stuck between catalogues. The crisp bill was stuck inside. She knew; somehow my mother
knew
: Her son would need that money. Coz someday, he would need to escape, run for his life. Same as her. Daddy Saddam has that effect on people.
    I slip out the hundred. Deliberate, I place the bill on the tray. Green against silver. There. Now, please hand over my ticket.
    Right now, I
really
feel Death’s stare-glare. But Officer Dick-Head’s so dumb I can hear its thought: “Runaway.” Rent-A-Cop Number Two leans down. His mastodon-sized head nudges my chest like a pushy Labrador.
    “Lemme see that.”
    Not a question (“May I see that?”), but a demand.
    Focus.
    Randy ignores the request. Still, I know I’m three seconds from being caught. In Serenity Ridge, I guarded that money with my life. I never took off my kicks. One kid tried to steal them. I kicked him in the groin and crushed his left testicle. That landed me in solitary for three weeks. I wonder how long this little trip will net: life?
    “My mother gave me that hundred for my birthday!” I want to shout. “Really, I’m not a prostitute!” But the Rent-A-Cops haven’t asked me any questions. I keep my mouth shut. People only know what you tell them.
    Randy pushes ticket, change and fake ID onto the metal tray. “Ticket’s nonrefundable. The bus is boarding at Gate Two.”
    I count the change. I fumble putting it back. The laminate falls out, tumbles to the floor. Before I can, the Rent-A-Cop picks it up and examines the picture. My stomach drops.
    “Excuse me,” I say. “That’s mine.”
    “What’s yours,” he says, suggesting nothing belongs to me.
    “That picture. It’s my mom. It’s the only one I