SIXTY-TWO

THE WREN

With money that’s not hers, Miriam buys a burner phone— a prepaid cellular phone fresh from Walmart— and uses it to dial the hospital.

They put her through to Wren’s room.

“Hey, psycho,” Wren says. She’s sounding pretty good.

“Still charming as ever,” Miriam says.

“Sorry.” She sounds like she means it.

“No, it’s cool. I like that about you. You remind me of me.”

A pause. Just Wren’s uncertain breathing. Finally, she says, “They said I was a bad girl. That’s why they wanted to kill me.”

“They did. They thought you were going to turn out to be a real bad apple, and so they figured on killing the tree before it could drop the fruit. Ugh. Metaphors. You know what, fuck meta­phors. They thought one day you were going to grow up and be a bad person and hurt other people.”

“Will I?”

I don’t know, Miriam thinks.

But that’s not how she answers.

“You won’t if you don’t want to. Fate isn’t written,” she says. It’s not a lie, not precisely. “This life leaves room for choice, but only if you want it real bad.”

“I want to be good.”

“Then be good.”

“Will you help me?”

Miriam sighs. Sucks on her cigarette. Blows smoke. “I’ll be back for you in a few years. Check on your smart ass, make sure you’re not a total shitbird.”

“Thanks.” She sounds like she means it. Miriam’s not used to such raw sincerity. “Thanks for that and for saving my life.”

“Ain’t no thing.”

“There are cops outside my room.”

“I know. That’s why I’m calling you instead of visiting.”

“I told them you were one of the good guys.”

“Not a bad girl?”

“Not a bad girl.”

Another drag off the cigarette. “Thanks, Wren. I’ll catch up with you one day. Keep your grapes peeled.”

“Bye, Miriam.”

Click.