Chapter Twenty

You're gonna have to step over my dead body
Before you walk out that door
You charmed me with your magic, landed looking tragic
"Forever" is the feather you ain't got no more
-The Kills, No Wow

I should have known better than to make that promise. I'd forgotten, for a moment, how completely my life had changed—sitting there with Pam, despite the decidedly abnormal surroundings, it was as if the last month had all been a dream, that she was still the only one in need of my substantial loyalty.

Javier's phone buzzed, and as Pam pulled away, I heard him mumbling an answer. She gave him another wary glance, clearly still extremely uncomfortable with the presence of the Joker's men (and frankly, I couldn't blame her—she didn't know them like I did). "By the way, Harley," she said, shifting her gaze to me, her eyes scanning my face and throat, "rough sex is all well and good, but you might want to rethink it when you're doing it with someone who might actually kill you in the middle."

In the old days I might have blushed and scolded, but now I just felt the terrible urge to laugh. I cleared my throat to disguise it, scratching at an eyebrow. "I will... keep that in mind."

"And what are these?" she demanded, indicating the shallow cuts puncturing my skin here and there.

"Knife fighting," I said. Her eyebrows shot up.

"Oh. You're knife fighting now. That's—that's great."

"Harley."

I turned at the sound of my name to look inquisitively at Javier, who was tucking his phone into his pocket. Chaz had slumped to the ground and was sitting morosely like a kicked dog, and I felt a slight pang. I'd need to remember to get pizza later on this week to make up for this whole experience; it was his favorite. "He wants us back," Javier said simply, gaze shifting uneasily between me and Pam. I felt her stiffen up behind me.

"What, he whistles and you come?" she muttered.

I snapped my head around, flashing her a dangerous grin. I loved her, but this mutinous sass was going to get old fast. "Wouldn't that be nice," I snarked, standing up. She followed, grabbing my arm.

"I don't want you to go."

I sighed, feeling torn for the first time since I'd left my home to go find him— but then, of course, Pam had not been in the picture. I wanted to make good on my promise, but I knew I'd need to explain the situation to the Joker first, to make sure he understood exactly what was going on and that my loyalties still lay firmly with him before taking off for a few hours or days to be there for my best friend.

"Believe me," I said softly, "this is the smartest thing to do. I need to go see him right now, but I'm going to come back and we'll work through this."

I spotted a flash of real fear in her eyes before her gaze hardened and she lifted her chin. "Fine."

"Don't pout," I chided her. "I promise. As soon as I can."

"Yeah, whenever that'll be," she said, not exactly relinquishing her sullenness. I tried very hard not to roll my eyes.

"Can we give you a ride back to your apartment?"

She scowled. "With them? Please. I've got a new phone; I'm perfectly capable of making my own way home."

I stared at her, jaw tense, knowing that she was being stubborn and that it could endanger her, but hell, I was one to talk. Finally, I nodded. "Fine. Give me your number and I'll call you soon, figure out where you are and come find you. Um—goes without saying that you shouldn't tell anyone you saw me?"

Her eyelids twitched, and my tone intensified, razor-sharp. "Pamela."

"I won't. Not now, anyway," she said grudgingly. "I want an explanation."

"Good. They wouldn't find me anyway, it would just be annoying," I said, turning away. Javier was shifting his weight from one foot to another impatiently, and I summoned a smile for him, going to pull Chaz to his feet. "Come on, guys, let's go."

As we ducked back into the trees, I glanced over my shoulder. Pam was sitting on the bench, not looking at us, arms wrapped around herself. I felt a sharp pang of worry, but I stuffed it back down.

I'll help her soon, I promised myself, and passed through the tree line.

I tried to understand why I was troubled on the drive home. My spirits should have been sky high—my best friend was not dead. She was, in fact, very alive, and, from the looks of it, on a path similar to my own, which meant that we could more than likely continue to be friends.

I realized as we passed over the bridge that the source of my concern was, essentially, the phone call from the Joker summoning us home again. It was as if he had a sixth sense alerting him to the fact that I'd shown interest in something other than him, and though I knew this was complete bullshit, it still lodged under my skin, an itch that wouldn't go away. It worried me, and for the first time, I found myself wondering what I would do if he said no, out of the question, I don't want you ever seeing her again. Giving up the Joker for Pam was clearly not something I was willing to do, but… I didn't think I could give Pam up for the Joker, either, not when she so clearly needed me.

When we got back to our building, J was gone, running some mischievous errand somewhere, no doubt, which frustrated me a little—why call us home if he wasn't even going to be there when we got back?

Aside from the senator fiasco, he hadn't shown himself in public. These missions of his were all prep. He was planning something huge, I figured, and I wouldn't at all be surprised if he chose Halloween day to mark his official return to the Gotham nightlife. Javier and Chaz skulked away almost immediately, probably hoping to disassociate themselves with me immediately. I'd annoyed them both with the woods stunt, Javier especially, but I wasn't worried. I'd win them back.

I went to J's room and picked up a book. I couldn't focus on it, though. My mind was still humming with its new knowledge and I couldn't stop thinking.

The way she'd said Woodrue's name convinced me that she was planning something unpleasant for him if she ever saw him again. Pam had never been one to go strictly by the letter of the law—she generally obeyed it just because it was easy, but she definitely didn't regard it as god, and I'd seen her flaunt it if it got in her way, much more so than I had pre-J. It made me wonder exactly what she was planning to do now that she was back. If she'd had a similar epiphany to mine—people are horrible, you've got to be willing to climb over them if you want to make a real difference in your own life or others'—then I wondered if she'd be willing to take it to the same heights I had.

Dammit, I wanted to spar now. I had a whole lot of coiled energy that needed expulsion—but I highly doubted Javier would be up to it after the morning's events. Shame. Recently, much to J's enthusiasm, I'd finally acted on something I'd thought about doing for some time, incorporating my gymnastics training into my expanding fighting technique—I'd had some more ideas last night and wanted to test them out.

Still, with Javier sulking and my mind in a frenzy, there was nothing for me to do but wait for J to return so I could explain the change in situation to him. So, I curled up on the bed and pretended to read my book until he returned home.

He entered the room in perfect silence. If I hadn't been keeping an eye on the door, I never would have noticed. I sat up straight. "J," I said. He glanced up at me. I could tell from his eyes that his mind was somewhere completely different, and I frowned. "Are you all right?"

He stared blankly at me, and aside from licking his lips, he gave me no response. This wasn't a good sign, but I knew better than to pry. Instead, softly, I said, "Pam's alive."

He blinked at me. "Whaat, the dead girl?" he drawled.

"Yeah, except she's not dead. I found her in the woods. The idiot who tried to kill her screwed it up, and she's back—and if I'm right, she's looking for revenge. I don't know, we didn't have much time to get into it; the boys were breathing down my neck and made me come back home."

"Made you… come back home," he repeated, a distinct mocking edge to his tone. My forehead creased. Definitely not good.

"Are you okay?" I asked again.

He smacked his lips and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms and surveying me from hooded eyes. "Wonderful."

I got up from the bed. "No, you're not," I said resolutely. "What happened?"

"So," he sang, ignoring my question, examining his fingernails as though he'd never seen anything more fascinating than the dirt beneath them, "the prodigal daughter's back, huh?"

"Yes," I said warily. J's mood could go either way at this point; he could erupt into a temper for who-knew-what reason or he could go manic on me, laughing at some effect that this new development would have on some plan for some particular person. I wasn't sure. "Is that bad?"

"Now eeee-ve-rything can go back to normal, can't it, Harley?" His eyes shot up, defiant, challenging me to contradict him as he pushed away from the wall and stalked towards me purposefully. "The plant-girl's back. Everything… falls into place, doesn't it?" He circled me, and I twisted around in order to follow him with my eyes, not trusting him to be at my back at that immediate moment.

"J, what are you talking about?" I demanded flatly. I'd been almost subconsciously preparing myself for the possibility of a fight ever since he called us home, so my defensive reflexes were sharp.

He continued to circle me, and I stopped spinning to keep up with him, determined not to humor him, to let him disorient me. "Well," he chanted, "dontchya think it'sss… time to go home?" He paused behind me. I felt him stepping close, and his next words were hissed into my ear. "You c'n forget that this ever happened. Start over. Be a… good little girl."

Well, I guess that answers my question about whether he's okay with me spending a couple of days with her. I whipped around; he leaned back just in time to avoid getting thwacked by my ponytail. "You're utterly insane," I said harshly.

He cocked his head, raising his eyebrows as though wounded. "I thought we'd been over the labels, Harley."

"Not when they're so perfect," I snapped. "You think for one second that this meant nothing? You think I'm just going to drop you cold because Pam's back?"

He tilted his head a little more, giving this question due consideration, and then licked his lips rapidly and answered, "Well… yeah."

"Then, like I said, you're insane," I said coldly, and turned away from him. I wasn't sure where I was going to go—I just wanted to get away from him for a few minutes, give him time to think twice about the assumptions he was making and give me time to cool off.

The Joker had other ideas.

I heard the floorboard creak alarmingly under his weight, and before I could twist around, he clapped his hand around my battered neck and flung me towards the desk, growling as he did so: "Nonono, do not turn your back on me!"

I slammed into the desk, feeling my thigh bruise instantly upon contact. I tried to push away, but he was already there, one hand on either side of the desk behind me, leaning forward, forcing me to move instinctively backwards to get some distance from him. His eyes were half-rolled into the back of his head, his yellow teeth were bared in a fearsome, predatory grimace, and the sudden fear was almost intoxicating in its potency. As my heart jumped, I realized that I'd allowed myself to be lulled into a false sense of security. On the heels of this realization came another: that thinking that I was safe on any level from this man might just have been the greatest mistake of my life.

"Ya know what you are, Harley?" he crooned, snapping out of that horrible, harsh voice of his and returning to the usual high-pitched, sing-song voice that was the norm when he was with me. He was breathing heavily, though, excited, which boded ill. Whatever he was about to say wouldn't be good, and I could feel my pulse throbbing in my throat with the ferocity of my fear.

He didn't wait for me to ask. "You're a sheep. Any stronger person comes along—hey! Look at me!"

I'd dropped my eyes, unwilling for him to see the sudden, stupid tears that had surfaced in my eyes. I shook my head, forcing out a strangled "No!", but it was no use—his right hand came up, gripped my hair, and jerked my head back, angling it up towards him.

He saw the tears, and the corner of his mouth jerked down in mocking concern. "Truth hurts, Harley? Oh, don't be sad. I'm helping. Now, as I was saying…" His eyes wandered off momentarily as he searched in his memory, and, a second later, snapped back to mine, which were blurring more every second. "Any stronger person comes along… and ya latch onto them. Ya know, you just gotta be led. It, uh, it gives your life meaning. You think you can accomplish something by being there for that person you've sunk your li'l teeth into." Almost absently, his thumb stroked a bite mark on the side of my neck, the touch a little too abrasive and painful to be tender.

"You… are wrong," I said in a whisper, struggling to keep my voice under control, keep it from breaking and embarrassing me further.

"I'm wrong? I'm wrong?" he demanded, his voice rising in hilarity and eventually breaking as he let loose a long cackle of laughter, hee-heeing right in my face. Gasping for breath, he demanded in a strained, deeper tone, "What makes you think I'm wrong, Doc?"

He hadn't called me that since our sessions. It was enough to make the tears finally spill over. Raising my voice, not caring that it broke several times, I said harshly, "I don't need you, Joker."

"Ohhh, but you do," he said, his voice suddenly dropping into a primal growl as he pressed a bony hip painfully into me, reminding me just how much of myself I'd given to him. "You do. But… you'll never have it all, and that just drives you craaaazy, doesn't it?!"

My voice rose into a broken scream: "I don't need you, J, and I wouldn't care if you died!"

Harsh words, words that I didn't mean, but he had hurt me more in this last five minutes than he had in our whole acquaintance, and the fear was so sharp and toxic that I couldn't think. Instinct prevailed, and mine said that I wanted to hurt him back—more importantly, I wanted to prove that I could.

The statement didn't exactly have the desired effect. He simply whooped with laughter at my assertion. "Don't hold back, Harley!" he struggled to say. "Tell me how you really feel!"

I had run out of words at that point. So, I elbowed his left arm away from me, and then drew back and socked him solidly in the face with my right fist.

He laughed again, but there was an angry edge to his amusement now, and before I could break away from him, he dug his hands into my ribcage and lifted me from the floor, swinging me around and letting my momentum carry us both straight into the bathroom door. It had been shut, but under our combined weight, the already-shitty lock broke and we fell into the room. I hit my head on the sink on the way down.

I was too dizzy to fight back, aside from taking a few feeble, ineffective swings at him as he leaped to his feet and seized me by the hair, dragging me upright. He flung me into the wall between the sink and the shower, using so much force that I could feel the plaster crumbling behind my aching shoulders. Viciously, he backhanded me, and as my head snapped to the side from the force, I tasted blood.

I swung out at him and nailed him in the chin with a clumsy uppercut. He let out a muffled "Mmmph!" of surprise, but undeterred, he drove a hard fist into my stomach, winding me completely. As I gasped for air, he grabbed my chin, twisted my head to the side, and drew his slick tongue up my burning cheek, collecting my tears. I felt a twitch in my lower belly, an excited spark even though the move was clearly a demonstration of dominance on his part rather than an expression of lust (what's the difference? whispered a twisted little part in my mind), and though I acknowledged this sick craving for him, I simultaneously felt vaguely repulsed, both by myself and by him.

The internal tumult galvanized me into vicious motion. Pulling in a difficult breath, I jerked my knee up, aiming clumsily. Feeling me shift, he blocked it off with his own knee, but his temporary distraction allowed me to give him yet another uppercut in the exact same place.

This seemed to irritate him. He drew back and aimed a fist at my face. Luckily, I'd been practicing with him, was starting to learn how to read him, and the adrenaline was speeding my reflexes, so I saw the way his elbow cocked back and I ducked away just in time. His knuckles broke through the plaster where my head had been, his hand getting stuck up to the wrist inside of the wall. He grimaced and pressed against the wall with his other arm, trying to pull his fist out. I took advantage of his distraction, grabbing a cup that was resting on the sink and breaking it over his head before darting out of the bathroom.

He freed himself and caught me before I was halfway to the bedroom door, grabbing me by the arm and forcefully flinging me to the ground. I still hadn't gotten my wind back after the punch to the gut, and my impact with the floor simply did more damage to my diaphragm, but the fall was nothing compared to what happened next.

The Joker jerked his foot back and kicked me hard in the side, causing me to crumple and coil around the wounded area protectively. He drew back again, and only my sense of self-preservation allowed me to reach up and blindly grab his ankle as it ripped through the air, pulling on it as violently as I could manage.

He lost his balance and fell hard on his back, hitting his head on the floor. Before he had even hit the ground I was struggling to my feet, gasping for air, in terrible pain—I was afraid my ribs were bruised, which would inhibit the hell out of me. I had to get out of there.

My hand was on the doorknob when he started laughing, and, despite myself, I turned to look at him. He was curled up on his side, lips drawn back from his teeth in hysterical laughter, blood trickling down from his hairline where the cup had broken and eyes screwed tightly shut—for a second, and then they flew open to smolder at me. "Oh, oh, oh, off she goes!" he gasped. "It's no use, Haaaarley; you'll always need someone. You can't exist on your own!"

"Go to hell, you son of a bitch," I snarled. "I hate you."

He lost it at that, rolling onto his back and laughing until he was absolutely weak. My lip curled in disgust, I twisted the knob clumsily, threw the door open, and stumbled out of the room, slamming the door shut behind me.

I was halfway out when his voice rose in one final, horrific screech of laughter: "You'll be back!" he howled from the room, as clearly as if he standing right beside me. I burst into tears once more and stumbled out of the apartment, desperate to get away, to get away from the unabashed stares of curious henchmen and to get away from him.

I stumbled my way to my car and peeled out of the complex, but once on the road, I was at a loss. Where could I go?

A little voice in my mind piped up, saying that this would be a great time to go see Pam as promised, but I rejected the idea immediately. Fleeing from partner to best friend felt uncomfortably like proving him right, and while I worried briefly about the transparency of going out of my way to prove him wrong, it was also a fact that I didn't exactly want to show her my brand new set of injuries. She'd never been gentle with I told you sos.

My breath was coming short and my ribs ached, the pain conjuring images of the hospital, but the temptation was fleeting. A trip to the ER was about as likely as me taking a trip to go see Wilson. I was in a lot of pain all over, but I wasn't coughing up blood and I highly doubted any of the injuries were fatal.

In the end, I decided to go back to my apartment. I had a spare key in my car and I was paid up on rent and utilities for the month of October, anyway. From what Pam said, my disappearance had hardly gone unnoticed, but with any luck my apartment wasn't a hotspot anymore and I would be able to crash there for a few nights till I figured out what to do.

True to my suspicions, big lengths of yellow tape were stretched across my door—CRIME SCENE – DO NOT CROSS. I rolled my eyes, ripped them away, and unlocked the door.

"Shit," I muttered. Half of my stuff was gone. I hated crooked cops. Anything of relative value—the TV, the microwave, even the ancient VCR—had been stolen. "That's what you get in Gotham," I muttered to myself.

Rather than brood over my lost possessions, which didn't really concern me these days anyway, I went into the bathroom, switched on the light, discarded my shirt, and looked myself over, taking inventory of my current injuries.

There were several marks and half-healed scratches from earlier, but they were literally pale in comparison to my fresh wounds. There were smudges of brown from where he'd grabbed my sides to throw me into the bathroom, and the skin covering my ribcage was bright red, angry from the vicious kick. My lip was split and bleeding and the right side of my face was mottled pink. There was a fist-shaped smear of purple on my abdomen.

Come to think of it, the back of my head felt unusually warm. I put a hand up to the area where my head had collided with the edge of the sink, and my palm came away moist, sticky, and red.

"Dammit," I snarled. Another head injury, though I wasn't feeling nauseous or disoriented. I quickly ran through the symptoms of a concussion and affirmed that I wasn't experiencing any of them. It probably looked and felt worse than it was. After all, it had failed to knock me unconscious. Then again, maybe I was about to drop dead. You never knew with head injuries. I decided not to worry, since it was highly unlikely that it would do any good, and continued my self-examination.

Gingerly, I felt my ribs beneath the thin layer of flesh. It hurt like crazy to touch that area, but I sucked it up with a hiss and continued probing, trying to assess the damage, and recalling absently as I did that it had been Dr. Jonathan Crane who'd first taught me that the term broken ribs was often falsely used—genuinely broken ribs severely limited one's mobility and could be life threatening; by far more common was bruising ranging from light to heavy. After a while, I concluded that while there was definitely bruising and swelling, and while it hurt to take a deep breath, the bruising didn't seem to be too severe—i.e., I could take shallow breaths without any pain. I was thankful for that. I'd never had badly bruised ribs, but I'd been assured that they were a bitch.

Next, I decided that a warm shower was in order. I still had a few of my least favorite clothes left (the rest were at J's place, much to my regret) and some towels that hadn't been stolen, so I grabbed them up, locked the bathroom door, and turned on the water. I stood under the stream for a long time, washing all the blood out of my hair, feeling the hot water first irritate and then soothe the injured skin wrapped over my body. When I was done, I felt much better. I wrapped myself in a towel, cleaned off the mirror, and stared at my blurred reflection until two conclusions drifted lazily into my mind.

The Joker was a foul, abusive, deranged son of a bitch who might in fact be the death of me some day.

This did not change the fact that I loved him.

I raised my eyes to meet my stare in the mirror. My reflection said, 'Really, Harley? You're still that stupid?'

I glared. My reflection glared back.

"Think about it," I said aloud, needing to hear a voice sort out my thoughts. "That's what love is—not fake love, real love. When you really love someone, that love doesn't fade. It… it doesn't die just because something happens, just because the person you love twists and changes and does horrible things to you. I mean, if you're lucky, you'll fall in love with someone who won't beat you up and who doesn't take sadistic pleasure in hurting you, but we can't all be that lucky… can we?"

I looked at my reflection again. She looked sad. I shook my head.

"I love him. I really love him. He could kill me and I still would love him. It doesn't mean that the way he's treating me is right. It just means… he's right for me. I'm going to go back to him, eventually. I have to. Not because I'm latching onto him because he's stronger… but because I love him… because I want to be around him."

Another glance at the mirror yielded a resolute face. That was better. I didn't look so… pathetic anymore.

So it was established in my mind that I would go back—but nobody said it had to be anytime soon. I needed to nurse my wounds, needed to restore my wounded pride first. I nodded at myself and turned away from the mirror to get rest.

As I pulled a black t-shirt on over a fresh pair of jeans, I heard a soft noise from the main room. Normally I would dismiss it was creaking walls or skittering bugs, but right now, I was more than a little paranoid. I thought what if it's him? What if he followed me? and was disgruntled when the idea brought forth an equal mix of fear and excitement. I tiptoed to my old jeans, fished the knife J had had given me out of the back pocket, unsheathed it, and crept out, keeping the knife at my side.

There was a cop there—older, fatter, bearded and a little greasy. He had his gun drawn and he was looking around cautiously, no doubt tipped off by the torn tape that something was amiss. He spotted me, standing in the doorway, and I steeled myself to run if he pointed the gun at me. However, my small build, my blonde hair and battered face got the better of him—nothing said damaged like a beat-up little woman in an abandoned apartment, and nothing said predator quite like the leer he gave me as he holstered his weapon.

"The tape said crime scene," he said by way of greeting.

I widened my eyes at him, playing timid as I carefully slipped the knife into my back pocket. "It wasn't there when I got here. I'm sorry—I needed a place to stay…"

"Squatting is illegal in Gotham City, Miss," he said. He stood where he was, but he slipped his thumbs into his belt loops, index fingers extended in what a first-year psychology student could identify as a framing gesture, a subconscious sexual move.

I let my eyes look dead and desperate—it didn't take a lot of effort; I was hurt and exhausted and I fed off of that. "Please," I said softly.

I don't know if the cop just didn't realize that his examination of my body (showcased by tight jeans and the t-shirt I'd left behind because it was a little small and showed a thin strip of my midriff) was so blatant or if he just didn't care. He took a step forward, looking anywhere but at my eyes, and said, "Well. There are a few homeless shelters on the way back to the station. Maybe I could give you a ride."

For fuck's sake, I thought, fighting to keep the defeated look on my face as he stepped closer. Just hold it together, Harley. Just a few more steps… my hand slipped into my back pocket, elbow cocked out as I leaned a bit towards him, gripping the edge of the wall with my other hand.

"Yeah," he mumbled throatily as he drew nearer, "you're a good girl, aren't you?" He was only a foot away when he stopped short and the lazy-eyed lechery on his face morphed into a sharp frown. "What the hell happened to you?"

I suppose he'd gotten close enough to see that my injuries were meticulously inflicted, just shy of severe. I imagined the calculated nature of the cuts from the knife threw him off more than the bruises—usually, victims of assault would have facial bruising and sloppy gashes, not these neat cuts speckling my face and throat. I could see it in his eyes—he was unnerved, but I moved before he had the time to suspect anything. With the practiced speed regular sparring with the Joker will give you, I plunged the knife upwards, hitting his fleshy throat at an angle and driving the blade up towards the back of his head.

"I. Hate. Dirty. Cops," I hissed in his face as his eyes widened in pained shock. Gurgling, he scrabbled at his gun holster, but he was already done for—he didn't seem to be able to focus long enough to undo the snap and wrestle the gun out, and his hand dropped limply. I felt the blood welling up warm over my knuckles, gathering in drops and rolling down my bare arm to my elbow, but I realized as I stared into his eyes that I was not repulsed, but neither did I feel nothing, as I had last time. In fact, I was… savagely pleased with myself.

I tore the blade out of his windpipe and let him fall to the ground, spinning neatly out of the way to evade the blood spatter. I lifted the knife and stared at the blade, coated in viscous, glinting red, and I felt that same flutter of pride. One scumbag down. A countless number to go.

I wasn't worried about being hunted down for this. This was my apartment, and as far as anyone knew, I was missing. My prints were everywhere already, except for on him. They would go with the easy explanation—that he had run into a junkie squatter, common enough in this city. They wouldn't suspect me… at least, not until my involvement in the Joker's operation became more public.

The cop was fading fast. I looked down at him, listening to the gurgling, stomach strong and heart beating fast with adrenaline, and I thought, this is what he made you for.

I catapulted into action. The officer was bound to have given his location to someone before going in; if he went long enough without getting back in touch, they'd come looking for him. I had no intention of being there when they did. I moved fast around the apartment, washing the blood from the knife and my skin making sure there was none left in the sink, then clicking the knife blade out of sight and pocketing it again as I made a mental note to thank the Joker for providing it next time I saw him. I grabbed the few leftover things that I wanted to keep and checked to see if there was any evidence that made it clear that I'd been here as recently as I had, but finding nothing worrisome (unless you count the cop's body), I slipped out. Within minutes, I was in my car, pulling away from the building, fully aware that I would never return.