I squander the first book in a day. And curse myself. I have to hold the book close to my face to see the words. I devour the words. The Winner is the most beautiful book ever written. I curse myself as I near the end. I should have rationed the pages. Sips of clean water on a desert island. Made them last.

Things are turning around. The nice deputy worked today. I now have a Men’s Health magazine and a People magazine. They’re both two years old. I read my magazines. I read them again. I lick the perfume ads. They taste like someone else’s breath. I read the table of contents. I read the photo captions. I read the copyrights.

Day 3, maybe day 7. I give myself one chapter of Jodi Picoult. I read that chapter three times. I cheat and read the acknowledgments page. I read the chapter again.

My hand’s infected. I know the signs. The pus smells worse than me. But it doesn’t smell like jail and I’m proud of myself for creating a different smell. They took the voice with the kidney stone this morning. I don’t know if she was released or taken to the hospital. She’s been quiet the past couple days. The voice who sings Aaliyah is still missing, and the voice who sings Billie Holiday doesn’t sing anymore. I don’t know if she’s still here, or they’re still here. The voice who’s withdrawing from alcohol, who says she’s a call girl, can now hold down food. I asked the nice deputy to give her my last oatmeal cream. The deputy comes back with a sliver of a bar of soap.

   I don’t know where everyone got these treasures. Maybe if you’re in long enough, you earn things like this. A bar of soap after a month. A tube of toothpaste after your first molar rots.

I read another chapter of Picoult. I’ll read it again after lunch. The judge this morning said I should be released. I’m not an inmate. I have a sister who’ll pay for a lawyer. I have friends who’ll find a lawyer.

The sheriff says he can’t just release me. He called the judge and asked the judge to assign bail. He smiles and starts to walk away. He thinks I’m an inmate. He thinks I belong here. But here’s a thing that’s funny: I’m the only person in this jail who’s guilty. And I’ll be gone before we find another voice to sing Aaliyah. My sister will post bail. Autumn will pick me up and take me to her house in Maryland, where I can sleep with my dog, and the police won’t find me. I’m not like the voices. I’ll never hear the voices again.

* * *

—

After seven days in jail and two days free, I went to court on the Monday after Thanksgiving. The marshals showed up, finally, to take me to another courthouse, the federal courthouse in Arlington. The judge asked them what the hell I was doing there. She asked me if I could find my way to D.C. to turn myself in. I said I could. She released me, again.

In D.C., Brett, everyone’s hero, who swore I’d only be in jail a couple hours, showed up to the police station where I’d asked someone to please arrest me—it was nearly nine a.m., the judge’s deadline. Brett said he was very sorry. He’d take my belongings and deliver them to Autumn. He’d take me to jail and make sure I was released the same day.

   The judge in D.C. said I wasn’t allowed to talk to Autumn, who now had my wallet, keys, and dog. So I was released, without shoelaces or a coat. Autumn had those too. The temperature on the bank said it was below freezing. There was snow on the ground.

I walked to a bar where my friend Jay used to work, where the manager knew me. The bartender fed me and called Jay. I hadn’t talked to Jay in a couple years. I had heard he’d moved to Atlanta. Our lives, the way they were, new number each time we moved, new jobs every few months, it was easy to lose someone. Jay changed his number and I changed mine, and someone said, “I think he moved to Atlanta”—I assumed it was for a guy—but he never moved to Atlanta.

Jay showed up in a Chevy and said, “Girl, oh my god. Did you enjoy your bologna sandwich? Get in. Lord. Open a window. You smell like shit. What the hell is going on?”

Strange reunion. Jay drove me to my sister’s house. Jay and my sister Ann read the court order that said I was now charged with a felony and stalking.

The problem was, as I’ve mentioned, Autumn had everything from my wallet to my house keys to my dog. I told them it was obviously a mistake. I just needed to borrow a phone.

Ann was suspicious. “What if she really is claiming that? The cops wouldn’t just make it up.” Jay burst out laughing. One of those exaggerated guffaws meant to show you how dumb you are. He was treading on thin ice with my sister. I may have had the felony charge, but she’s the one who can make you cry.

   I shut myself in the bathroom to try to wash some of the jail smell off me while they fought over who would make the call. By the time I came out of the bathroom, they’d finally agreed Ann should call. Autumn had never met Jay. And Jay had no interest in feigning politeness.

Ann was cautious at first. “Lauren’s here. Yeah, she’s fine. Did you say she was stalking you? That’s what it says.” Then, “How did this happen, Autumn? You need to fix this.” Then “Okay. You remember the address?” And to me, “She’s on her way.”

When Autumn arrived with my dog and phone, Jay wouldn’t talk to her. He’d taken a position by the window where he could cross his arms and let her know he was not having her shit. I tried to introduce them, but he wouldn’t make eye contact, said something to my sister under his breath that no one needed to hear to understand. Some version of “This bitch.”