She puts down her book, her eyes tearing from tiredness. The hour of sleep, two coaches back, took the edge off her weariness, but she feels as if there are months of sleep to catch up on, years.

She told the boy her name. Her real name. It was a gesture — a down payment on the money she owes him. Strange, she thinks, in seven months with Merlin, she never once revealed her real name. That first night they met, when he was taking her to the party, he told her he was Merlin and asked what her name was. Guess, she told him, which is when he came up with Lalalania. They were in a freight elevator in some warehouse — not Drigo’s place, some other warehouse where people lived, as if in the parts of Toronto she knew, people were things you kept in warehouses. The elevator arrived at the third floor. He lifted the gate, and they stepped out.

They passed a door with a yellow sign that said

CAUTION: THIS DOOR MUST BE KEPT CLOSED.

Caution. It became her name right that moment, and now she has left it behind. If Toronto had been her own personal hell, then where was this train taking her? Well, wherever it was, it was taking Kitty Pettigrew. She had dared to tell someone — a skinny street punk — her real name. She has thrown Caution to the wind, she thinks, and laughs. Then she turns, and the boy, Brent, is looking at her expectantly. He’s kind of sweet, she thinks, looking into eyes, which are so vulnerable, she wants to kiss them and hold his head to her chest, the way her daddy once used to do, a million years ago when she was not a murderer. A lifetime ago.

“So, where are you really going?” says Brent.

“Away,” she answers. He looks puzzled. “I’m not going to somewhere,” she says. “I’m running away from something.”

“Ah,” he says, looking thoughtful.

“What?” she asks.

“It’s the opposite for me,” he says, poking himself in the chest.

“Oh, yeah?” she says.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve got this plan. I’m going to make some big-time money.”

She takes his pointy chin in her hand, the way Merlin used to do to her but not so rough. “Well, aren’t you just the smartest thing on two legs,” she says.

“Screw off,” he says, pushing her hand away. She laughs. “It’s true.”

She looks out the window.

“Why are you running?” he asks.

“Because I killed someone.”

He dismisses this with a snort. “Yeah, right,” he says. She doesn’t argue. She finds the button to make her seat recline, folds herself up in her chair, and gets to work on those years of rest.