I should've ended it. Killed myself. All the way from Washington to Romania, every step I knew I should do it. Every safe house I hid in, every truck and boat and plane I stowed away on, every shadow that fell too close or face that looked too familiar I told myself, I'll survive this one, just this one, then I'll do it.

But I didn't do it.

'You're my friend.'

Steve wouldn't want me to do it.

The first night in the room in Bucharest I stayed awake. Sitting against the wall. Planning my escape if I was discovered. Planning my end if I wasn't. I rented the room from the old woman and the old man found a mattress for me because the fold-out bed in the sofa didn't work.

The first morning, when the sun was up and I could hear the traffic, I let myself fall asleep sitting up against the wall.

I knew two ways of escape if they came for me.

The pistol was in the backpack if they didn't come.

When it was dark I found the kind of store that prefers customers like me. I had the money I'd taken from the safe houses I'd shadowed through and I bought jumări and beer and went back to the room to eat and wait and plan.

When the sun came up I fell asleep sitting against the wall.

I thought, maybe today I end it.

'You're my friend, you've known me your whole life.'

Maybe tomorrow instead.

I made the food last two days then found a different store, later after dark than the first one. A better store. It's better not to be seen too soon or too often or too regular.

The clerk behind the counter was old enough to be my daughter or my grandmother, whichever way I wanted to look at it. She smiled at me when I walked in.

I bought cereal and milk and took it back to the room where I didn't have a bowl or a spoon. I ate by handfuls and swallows then slept on the mattress and at noon when the church bells were ringing I found a used-goods store and bought a cup and bowl and silverware.

The cereal didn't last the day. At suppertime I found another store, not as rough as the first, not as good as the second. I would've gone back to that second store, back to see if Grandma would smile at me again, but that was dangerous for her. Crossing paths once already was dangerous for her. Anybody looking for me wouldn't care who they had to go through to find me.

Almost anybody.

Supper was cold soup and bread and plums. I spent the night against the wall, fighting sleep, fighting knowing sooner or later I would have to give up tomorrow.

I woke up when the church bells rang nine a.m. There was more soup in the cupboard, more bread in the icebox, more plums on the counter but I didn't want to eat. I was hungry but I didn't want to eat. I planned another way to escape. Traffic was slowing and the sun was setting when I had it perfectly memorized.

I slept on the mattress and dreamed Steve at the table. Big Steve, now Steve in then Steve's clothes, the Sunday funny papers in his hands. "You're gonna waste that food? It's not gonna eat itself," he told me. "There's kids in Jersey are starvin', you know."

"I remember you."

That made him smile. Something made him smile. "I know you do, Buck."

'You're my friend. I'm with you to the end of the line.'

When I woke up I ate the soup and bread and plums.

I went to Grandma's store because I didn't think she'd be there early in the day. I left with milk and soup and cereal and butter for the bread and she was coming in as I was going out and she smiled at me.

The next day was half-off at the used-goods store. I bought a sleeping bag and fresh clothes and a pot for the soup. I memorized a way out of every room in the building.

I put my backpack, and everything inside of it, under the floorboards in my room.

The End