Prologue

With his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his hoodie, he’d rather be anywhere but here, standing in a corridor of the film department’s building, waiting for her under the flickering fluorescent lights.

“How many times?” he asks.

She rolls her eyes. “When did you last take a shower?” She’s almost dismissive, but there’s still a hint of concern in her voice, a shadow of caring.

He’s going to lose that if he keeps going. He’s well aware, but he needs to know. If he doesn’t know, he can’t keep track, and if he can’t keep track, he won’t know how much…

“Did you hear me?” she asks. Snaps, really.

“I don’t know; sometime this week,” he mutters.

“I’m really worried. This isn’t good for you.” Her dyed-dark hair swings into her eyes, and she pushes it behind her ears angrily. One strand catches on her nose ring. “Can I take you to counseling?”

“No,” he says instantly. He’s been too many times, and it’s humiliating and tiring, and he can fix this if he can only keep count. He’s sure of it because she’s told him so; she’s told him this is the right track to fix everything and make it all return to how it used to be. “I just need to know—”

“It’s my life,” she tells him with an air of finality. “You may not agree with my choices, but you can’t keep doing this.”

“How many times?” He steps closer, forgetting he’s taller than her until he’s towering over her, angry and desperate and all the things he didn’t want to be.

She shrinks back. “You’re scaring me.”

“Just…tell me!”

Mutely, she shakes her head. “If you won’t let me help, leave me alone.”

She turns on her heel and disappears toward the office she came from.

“Damn it,” he mutters. That’s twelve that he knows of.

“Twelve,” he repeats to himself. “Twelve.” He counts his steps as he leaves the building, twelve at a time. Twelve steps at a time as he walks toward his building.

In his room, he sinks to his knees in front of the picture. He lets his fingers trace across the words carved into the floor as he picks up the bread. “Twelve,” he mumbles to himself, counting out his bites. Twelve of them. He needs new bread.

It’s not her fault, and she shouldn’t have to hurt for it. If he eats, she’s free.

“I will eat your sins,” he promises.