13 Kimmy
I forced myself up before seven.
The sky was lightless and invisible behind the blanket of early morning fog that slipped from the nearest hills, but the street already buzzed with delivery vans and the rumble of trash collection. I'd promised myself I'd be normal today—just a regular person with a list of things to do.
Work. Grocery. Bank. Pharmacy. Then home.
I spent a good portion of the day doing some research for Geneva.
But my gaze constantly drifted to the burner on the table.
It sat there, square and unblinking, the matte plastic catching none of the light.
I thought about how the man on the other end—Operative Seven—had spoken to me last time.
All cold efficiency. No small talk, no preamble. Just a question.
Are you in danger?
Like he'd been waiting for the chance to fix something, as if danger was a math problem with only one solution.
I wondered what he was doing now. If he was watching, or planning, or moving on to the next name on the list. I wondered if he ever thought about the people whose lives he upended, or if they all blurred into the background like faces in a mall.
The urge—or maybe curiosity—to pick up the burner was intense, almost physical.
But I held back.
Do not call this number again unless you are in immediate danger.
Around 4 PM, I showered, dressed, grabbed my keys, double-checked the pepper spray, and headed out.
The air outside was brittle. Spring in the city always felt like a dare—one day of sun, then a week of gray, then a sudden heatwave followed by an afternoon of drizzle, as if the world couldn't decide what it wanted to be.
I felt the chill cut through my hoodie and into my spine as I walked to my car.
The first errand was the bank. Then a grocery run at Joe's Market two blocks away. The parking lot was already a minefield of SUVs. I slipped into a spot near the exit, so I'd have a straight shot if things went sideways. Old habits.
Inside, I moved fast. I knew the layout, the trick to skipping the crowded aisles.
I scanned the produce, checked the price on strawberries, and tried to ignore the couple arguing near the avocados.
But I couldn't stop glancing over my shoulder.
Every time the cart squeaked, my heart jumped.
Every time someone got too close, my skin prickled.
I pretended to check my list, but what I was really doing was mapping the exits.
I hated that I still felt that way, all this time later.
There was a man by the deli case. Dark blue jean jacket, headphones, beard. He watched me, just for a second, then looked away. But I caught him again in the bread aisle, pretending to study the bagels. His basket was empty.
My pulse doubled.
My gut told me to ditch the cart and run. It was tempting, but I was out of food, so I continued grabbing items off the shelves. Besides, it could just be my paranoia.
But the man continued to follow me. Not immediately, not obvious, but I could feel the drag of his attention. He lingered by the juice section, then drifted over to the hot bar, then paused by the freezers with dinners for one. He retraced all my steps.
I got what I needed, checked out in the self-service lane, and walked briskly back to the car. I loaded the groceries in the back, got in, and locked the doors before starting the engine.
As I pulled out, I saw the man again. He stood by the crosswalk, hands in his pockets, watching the traffic. No shopping bags.
I'd forgotten about the incident for a few days, chalking it up to my PTSD.
At the end of the week, I ran out of my anxiety medication and needed to pick up the refill from my pharmacy, which wasn't going to be ready until the evening according to the pharmacist.
When I got the text notification that the medication was ready, it was evening and I thought of walking there to get in some extra steps.
The waning daylight painted the sidewalks and the buildings in weak gold.
There were still people outside, rushing to get home for dinner as I made my way to the pharmacy.
When I arrived, there was a huge line in front of the pickup window and only one person checking out patients and doing consultations.
She seemed new. I couldn't remember her face.
Almost thirty minutes passed before I reached the counter.
I picked up my prescription and declined the consultation, stating that I was familiar with the medication.
The pharmacist looked back at my file on her computer and smiled apologetically.
"Oh, yes, you're right. Sorry about that.
And sorry for the long wait. We've been short-staffed today all day and I'm the only one closing. "
"No worries. Thanks."
The city after dark felt different—hungrier. The street was mostly quiet, except for occasional passers-by.
As I walked back home, I tried to focus on the rhythm of my steps, the swing of my arms, the inventory of what hurt and what didn't. The paper bag in my left hand rustled a little. But my mind kept flicking to the windows overhead, the hidden spaces behind dumpsters and parked cars.
It wasn't something I could control very well yet.
At the corner, I hesitated. The alley between an apartment complex and a small shopping center was a straight shot to the next street over—a shortcut to my apartment that would eliminate at least a block of walking.
But it was also a blind spot, with nothing but a couple of trash bins and a flickering lamp over a loading dock.
For some reason, I checked my phone, then I pulled the pepper spray from my pocket and turned into the alley.
Maybe I wanted to challenge myself, to see if the incident three years ago still had a hold on my mind. Or maybe I was just stupid. Like a female lead in an old slasher movie where she did the exact opposite of what a sane person would do while on the run from a serial killer with a knife.
The space closed in right away.
I moved fast, head down, counting each step.
Ten in, I heard the echo of another footfall, out of sync with mine.
I froze, not physically but mentally.
My feet continued on, bag with medication in one hand, pepper spray in the other.
My chest felt hollow as I tried to listen.
Nothing.
I sped up. There it was again, behind me—lighter, quicker, but there. I glanced back, heart in my throat, and stared into the darkness. Nothing moved. No one.
I walked faster. So did the steps.
Now I could hear them for sure. My panic was real and raw. I did the only thing I could think of—I reached into my pocket for the burner.
The footsteps gained. I cleared the alley but instead of waiting for the light to cross, I cut left because I needed to keep moving.
I strode past the shuttered laundromat and the all-night bakery with its windows lit up like a stage set.
It wasn't the way home anymore, and I wasn't sure why I did it.
I risked another glance back. A male silhouette appeared from the alley. I couldn't make out his face but I knew he was following me.
When an opportunity presented itself and I was hidden from his view by the large tree, I ducked behind a parked van, pressed my back to the cold metal, and dialed the Customer Service number on the burner.
Two rings.
"Operative Seven," he said. His voice was exactly as I remembered—monotone, clipped, the world's most reliable compass. "I told you not to ca—"
"I'm in danger. I swear I'm not lying," I rattled off in a half whisper. I had to swallow before speaking again. "I think someone's following me."
A pause. The line was so quiet I thought he might have hung up.
"Where are you?" Calm. Not a tremor.
I listed the cross streets, fumbling them out between gasps. He didn't waste time with comfort. Just listened.
"You see the Korean market on the south side?" he asked.
"Yes." The neon was out, but I saw the shape of the sign.
"Keep walking. Turn right at the end of the block. There's a twenty-four-hour coffee shop. Go inside and get yourself some fancy coffee. Preferably the one that takes time to make. Don't look back."
I nodded, then realized he couldn't see me. "Okay."
"Stay visible. I'll be there soon."
"Okay."
The call ended.
I rose to my feet and walked. Each step, my body screamed to look over my shoulder, but I didn't. The air felt heavier, and every passing car was suddenly a threat, a possible accomplice.
At the corner, I waited for the pedestrian light. The intersection was lit up much better than the one by the alley, so I felt semi confident that the person following me wouldn’t try anything. As soon as I had the right of way, I rushed over the crosswalk to the other side of the street.
The coffee shop was open, lights blazing. Just like Operative Seven had said. I went inside, letting the bell over the door chime a fake note of safety. A kid in a beanie worked the register, ringing up a drive through customer.
He looked up. "Good evening. Give me a second, yeah?"
He handed two paper cups in a tray to the client through the drive-through window and then returned his attention to me.
"What can I get you?"
I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and set it on the counter. "This." Then I looked up at the drinks menu and ordered something with a long name, hoping it'd take more than a minute to prep.
The kid charged my card and told me to hang tight while he worked on my drink.
I sat at the table in the corner, occasionally checking the street through the glass wall of the shop, looking for the person who'd been following me.
I didn't know if Operative Seven would actually show up.
But I had little choice. So I waited.
I waited for him to find me.