"Chicago!" Trista shouted as she burst through the door.
"What are you doing home from work?! And what are you shouting about?" Anna asked, sitting up from her usual position on the couch where she was flipping through the channels even though she already knew for certain absolutely nothing was on.
"I quit. And I'm going to Chicago! We're going to Chicago," Trista yelled exuberantly as she flung off her coat.
"Chicago?!" Anna jumped up from the couch. "Wait. What?! You quit?!"
"I quit," Trista affirmed. "I had to quit to go to Chicago."
"Now back up a minute. Why are you going to Chicago?"
"Now don't be jealous. You're going too," she said, patronizingly.
"What?! No, I'm not. Why would I--"
"Jesus, Anna, don't you ever read the papers?!" Trista exclaimed. "They had a hit. They're in Chicago. They're calling it a copycat."
"What?" Trista shoved a paper in her face. "The Chicago Copycat," Anna read aloud. "What is this?"
"Keep reading."
"Tuesday. Thirty-eight-year-old Eddie Bartha was murdered late last night in the Chicago area called Back of the Yards. The neighborhood is infamous for its dangerous streets and such a killing would normally not warrant extended attention. This case, however, is far from normal."
Trista ripped the paper from Anna's hands and skipped ahead. "The victim sported all the signs we in Boston have instinctively come to associate with the Saints. It seems unreal that just a few short weeks ago, we thought the Saints had finally been found out and now not only have they not been found out, but they have their very own copy cat killer. Yadda yadda… Oh, and then they say listen, listen… Uh… So hang on to your hats, good citizens, because the disease is spreading." Trista laughed. "The disease is spreading. It's funny because half --no -- more than half of this city has been caught up in the disease from the very beginning. Anyways, so get packing!"
"I don't have anything to pack. I've been wearing your clothes for the past month!" Anna said, catching Trista by the arm before she could retreat into the bedroom.
"Oh," Trista said, only momentarily phased. "Well, then I'll pack. You… you go online and get plane tickets."
"I can't afford a plane ticket," Anna called Trista back. "I can't afford food. I've been living at your mercy, Trista. I can't… I'm-- I--"
"Anna, really. Don't worry about it," said Trista, finally making her beeline for the bedroom successfully. Anna followed her to hear her muffled voice from the closet telling her, "I love Murphy. He's like my brother. And he loves you so now you're my sister." Trista emerged with a heap of cloth in her arms. "And I'm going to take care of you just like any sister. Now help me figure what to pack."
"But I don't want to be taken care of," Anna protested, throwing the sweater Trista had shoved at her back onto the bed. "Not like this." She sat down next to the sweater she had forsaken and picked it up gingerly, twisting it between her fretful hands. "I don't want to be no one and live in the shadows and mooch off of your generosity. I'm living a borrowed life and I can't do that. I can't do this." She gestured to the room around her.
"Anna… what are you--"
"I'm… not going," she cut Trista off.
Trista stopped what she was doing, setting down the pajamas she had just taken from the dresser. "What do you mean you're not going?"