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When the borders of your world are visible and the machinations of each day are indistinguishable from any other, even the most subtle change is like a spotlit ballerina pirouetting across a stage in a dark and hushed auditorium. A prisoner delaying obedience, a stolen glance between man and woman; a gray goblin walking around the shop floor the opposite direction; hose water that’s a little warmer; the loss of a ply of toilet paper. These are the things my mind clings to, revered like holidays and cataloged as major life events in the annals of Janie history: Mr. Big Resistance Day, Tragic Lovers Day, Counter-Clockwise Patrol Day, Hose Water Hysteria Day, O Third Ply Where Art Thou Day.
While deliberating over names for the day I smiled, I noticed the doors. The double doors I was pushed through 1,175 days ago were unguarded. Joffrey’s absence was as subtle as the Vegas skyline on a moonless night. Fifteen maybe twenty yards. Clear path. Ran a 12.7 hundred. Quarter that. Three seconds. Maybe four. Push bar. Opens out. Outdoors. Outside. Out of this nightmare. This is it. If he’s not there when I get my slop, I’m gone. Please God.
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