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everything, he tosses the empty billfold back by the body. It hits the girl’s foot, making it twitch. Bile rises in my throat.
    Then they walk away without saying a word, leaving me rocking back and forth in my boxcar, taking deep, shuddering breaths, trying not to throw up. Finally my brain snaps back on. Get out of here, Kit! I stagger to my feet and slide open the door, lower myself to the ground. I know I should run for all I’m worth, but I can’t move. Instead, I look at the girl.
    She’s lying unnaturally on one arm, her torso twisted, legs curled together, head flopped back under the car. A steady stream of blood flows from her throat, making its way down her chest and onto the gravel. Neon blue paint, leaking from the cracked handle of the nail polish, mixes with the blood and washes the rocks in a hideous purple. My stomach lurches.
    Blue nail polish. I stumble a few steps back as realization sets in. Hands shaking, I crouch down to get a glimpse of the girl’s face under the boxcar. Her blank eyes are partially covered by her hair—thick, black hair with a blue highlight.
    This time I don’t hesitate. I turn and run. Run and run and run. The girl’s sightless eyes hover before me, and I blink violently, but they don’t go away. I stumble on a rail. My ankle rolls, and I fall forward, catching myself with my hands. The rocks scrape slices of skin from my palms, but I don’t feel it. Everything around me is sliding out of focus. I find a pebble under my face, slimmer than the others, and stare at it until the ground stops revolving. It’s coated in mud, the ends tapered. Brown. Oval. Like my eyes. Like her eyes. No! The mutilated image returns, her vacant gaze, that blue highlight dipped in blood.
    I dig my hands wildly under the rocks, into the drenched earth, searching for something solid to stop the spinning. Only ten hours ago, I had a conversation with this girl. I took her money; I gave her a fake I.D.
    Fake I.D.
    My hands stop digging as a lump forms in my stomach. The driver’s license, the one that looks like it could be mine, is it still with her? The ground remains unsteady, but for the moment I push the gory specter to the side. I think about the wallet the men pulled out of the girl’s purse, see it landing by her body. The I.D. would be in there. If I could just get it, I might still have a chance. I could find work. I wouldn’t have to go back to Williams.
    All I have to do is take it.
    But taking it means going back there, seeing her again, and I can’t do it, not that. I’ll find another solution , I think as I struggle to my feet. Right now I’ve got to get out of here before the police show up.
    I take a step forward and then stop. Sweet kava—the police! When they go through the girl’s stuff, they’ll find the license. I touched that thing! They might connect me to the murder. I could get sent home, maybe even to prison. Unless … Unless I remove the evidence.
    I squeeze my fingers against my brow, try to think. But I know I don’t have a choice anymore, not if I want to be sure. I breathe in again, a deep, raspy breath, and force my legs to turn around, to walk back. Just a few steps, that’s all it is.
    I don’t look at her face, at her contorted body, at the pool of purple blood. I just stare at the ground and focus on the wallet, a patch of white against the awful backdrop of blue and red. I waver for a moment, the nausea returning. You can do this! I take a step toward it. And another. And another. Then, when I’m a foot away, I leap forward, snatch it up, and run.
    I run faster than before, leaping over tracks, dodging boxcars, keeping my eyes on the distant highway that marks the end of the train yard. My ankle throbs, but I ignore it. I can’t let anyone see me.
    I churn my legs harder. My feet only just skim the ground. I block out everything—the soreness in my body, the pit in my stomach, the bloody corpse. The only thing I allow myself to think about is the