My world was condensed to three things: my mom, my death and my hair. I alternated between nursing my cocoa and rubbing strands of my hair between my fingers. I'd start one when I'd drifted in my thoughts, stopped when I realised what I was doing and tried to still myself, then drift in my thoughts until I started up again.

     My mom. My death. My hair. I wasn't sure any of them were actually mine. Was Evelyn my mom, or the woman who died when my memories began? That night when my name became Sadie and my father--whichever man it was--when my father was murdered--did I really exist before then? Was it Sandy who died, or me, or both, or--

     "Hey."

     The nice barista, bereft of his green apron, slid into my vision. He sat across from me at the slight table. I blinked at him over the paper cup that started this.

     "I think that thing is empty by now. Here." He set a full cup between us, pushing it toward me, following through with a flick of his fingers.

     "No cream, no sprinkles, just my own concoction of cocoa-plus. On the house."

     "Thanks?"

     I sipped under his expectant gaze. My eyes widened as soft sugar drifted through me.

     His mustache slanted, with pride or triumph or maybe relief. "Lavender, covered up with cherry-infused chocolate syrup. For relief and relaxation."

     "It's wonderful." Rich, but not over-sweet.

     He folded his hands on the table and leaned forward over them.

     "Are you okay?" he asked again. I grimaced. "That bad?"

     "Worse, I think."

     His grimace mimicked my own, upturning his mustache in a wide U. He opened and closed his mouth a couple times, then said, "Wanna talk about it?"

     Tears sprang to my eyes; I was struck with how alone I was. Not quite dead, not quite human. Not able to share these questions with anyone I expected to see again soon. An only child, orphaned or practically so. The only breathing, crying--cyborg? I choked out a chuckle. Cyborg Sadie.

     "What?" he said around a confused smile.

     I shook my head. "I don't think I can talk about it."

     "Did this all happen today?"

     "Kinda."

     It was late. Whether it was past midnight and still "today" fluttered through my consciousness. He got out his keys, playing with something on them. Probably thinking of home...

     "You probably didn't see it on your way in," he began, holding the keys where I could easily see something, "but my name's Trystan."

     "Sadie," I said automatically.

     I wiped my eyes. Then I looked at the plastic rectangle protecting what may have been a hand-made decoration: 'Trystan' was spelled out in silver glitter and outlined in black ink against a white-and-purple background.

 

     He stood up and held a hand out to me. "Why don't we go outside? I'm going home anyway, and you should probably breathe something besides stale-coffee-and-biscuits."

     I accepted his hand, grabbed my bags, and followed him out the door. Meanwhile, thoughts unending but distant from myself made themselves known. Like stock tape just large enough to read at a distance. Human hands warm from human hearts, human hearts feel human love, human love consumes the human brain, hands are human but I'm not the same. Outside, I took a deep breath and tried to banish them.

     "Better? A little?"

     I nodded.

     He meandered around the building, presumably towards his car. Be began speaking without looking at me.

     I looked through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the cafe. It was a bright, lively glow in a sleeping night. Trystan's coworker was laughing with someone who already had their order when some officers rolled in, guns holstered, thumbs in their belts.

     "Sorry if I'm... weird. They make me uncomfortable."

     "They?"

     He turned slightly, saw where I was already looking, and waved a hand. "Yea. Them."

     We weren't walking anymore. The blue Lexus must have been his car.

    "Why?" I asked.

     "Men like them have a history with men like me. Anyway, you uh, you have a goodnight." He held out his hand and we shook awkwardly.

     His car beeped at the press of a button and he headed around to the driver's side. At the same time, one of the officers leaned on the counter while talking to the barista. Her customer-service expression seemed forced. I stomped my feet a little, willing circulation to sort itself out. If I hadn't been so cold, I might not have looked down to see the man's pantlegs riding up above his ankles.

 

     "WeneedtogonowTrystan!" I blurted from the back seat, before he was even buckled in.

      "What? Why are we going? I didn't--"

     "Those aren't cops, they're worse."

     "UuuuuUUUUUUUHHHH." Trystan was half-gearing up and half-questioning with the noise. It got louder and matched the noise of the engine as he left the parking lot by the nearest exist.

     "What are they? The fucking mob? I--where am I even going!" he continued frantically.

     "I don't know and just get on the highway."

     I looked out the rear window, pining after my car. My car. They must know the license plate, the make, the model... they probably knew that before even contacting Evelyn. I gave it a silent farewell, wondering if I'd ever see it again.

     "Why am I getting on a highway. Why am I listening to a teenager in my car. Are you a runaway? Is that why they're worse than cops?"

     "No. Sort of--well--no, just shut up! You're the kind of guy who has a history with cops, you must understand, right? Right??"

      "Yea no, as in, they gave me a hard time in clubs and harass my friends, not as in they have a warrant for my head or something! Kid. Kid. I'm not getting into your shenanigans. Can I like, drive you home?"

     "No! My--I---Mom told me about them, she told me I couldn't go home."

     Trystan was silent for a minute. The stock-tape thoughts continued. Not your mom. Not your home. Not your face or your name.

     "I'm not in trouble," I said quietly. I started to tear up. "I was just..." not born "...existing."

     He nodded slowly at the road. "Get down back there. If they're looking for you, they might be on the roads."

     I used my laptop bag as a pillow. Another night, the smooth ride might have put me to sleep. Instead, I stared bleary-eyed at the driver's seat and took choice sips of the lavender-cherry-cocoa I'd managed not to spill yet.

     Neither one of us said anything more until Trystan drove onto the on-ramp for the highway and paused to wait for an opening. I heard, more than saw, his hand run over his face.

     "I'm too old for this," he murmured helplessly.