The rest of the night means next to nothing to me. They patch up my wrist, my head, my knuckles. They drag me to the room where Max died and I have to listen to the doctor tell me why they couldn't save him. I don't listen; their words don't mean anything, I can't understand any of their terminology. I've moved beyond the anger phase; now, I just don't feel anything. Mitchie's trying to prod me along, get me to respond to something- anything- but I can't find it in myself to do much more than stare blankly ahead, one phrase consistently running through my brain: It's all my fault, it's all my fault.

We are shuffled from doctor to doctor, all in the name of keeping us healthy. One of them looks at my back, at the scars, and checks for infection. She sounds impressed that I haven't managed to contract any; I tell her about the cream and she tells me I'm resourceful. I don't give a shit. Then she does the same to Mitchie, who is also OK. She sends Mitchie to another doctor, while I am held back to answer a couple of questions from a guy know as the coroner.

"I'm going to do an autopsy on your little brother. Do you know what that means?" The coroner's voice is much higher pitched than Dr. Marx's, much more playful than it is comforting. I resist the urge to smack him. It's much harder, without Mitchie here.

I just shake my head at his statement; why the fuck would he think I know anything about this kind of stuff?

"Well, we do a couple of tests on his body, to find out the cause of death-"

"We know the fucking cause of death! He was shot!" I can't believe how much of an idiot this guy is being.

The coroner nods. "Yes, but the law requires us to do one anyway. Also, we're interested in looking for any suspicious bruises or cuts that are consistent with any type of abuse he received."

Way to break my heart, thinking about all the shit Max went through and how he never got to enjoy the rewards. "J-Just a few days ago... my father- grabbed us by the collars, threw us to the ground. Maybe something's there?"

He puts a hand on my shoulder and for once I find myself not shying away. "Of course. We'll check for that. But perhaps you don't want to stick around for the autopsy- why don't you run along back to the waiting room? I'm sure your friend will be done soon."

I nod, once again reverting to my confused state. I still don't know how to feel about this so I choose not to feel anything. The walk back to the waiting room could have taken me a millennium or a millisecond. Time has no bearing on me now, really. It's not measured by seconds or minutes or hours, nor by distance traveled. No, for me, time is now measured in words and speech. Everything else may be happening at any tempo, fast or slow, but I can tell how long the words go on for. It seems like they are all that is real anymore- though I'm sure that if I had physically seen Max die, images would be the things that are real.

"Alexandra?" It's the receptionist, trying to get through to me.

"Alex." Just numb words, meant to fill time, meant to fill space. I have to correct her- always have to make sure people get my name right, because no one ever does.

Silence. Clicking. I think it's her heels, tapping against the cold tiles. "Your friend Mitchie wants to see you."

"OK." This conversation I can measure, I can tell that it's short and I'll probably forget it by the time the next conversation rolls around. "Where is she?"

"I'll have someone show you there." She calls in a guard hanging around, eating, and whispers the directions to her. The guard makes no attempts to talk to me the entire trip there, though honestly we could have only been walking for a few seconds. I don't know. I just don't know anymore.

We're in a room with lots of cabinets, lots of machines, and a single bed in the middle. Mitchie's lying on it, looking rather dazed. Instead of my usual heart-clenching anger, I am swamped with an utter depression, the likes of which I've never known before. The closest I can describe it is the time I tried to kill myself by stuffing dirt in my mouth- suffocation, choking, coughing, vomiting. The depression swallows me up like that now, fistfuls of dirt once again being forced down my throat by my own hand. But that is no longer what I want.

"She's fine. She's waking up." A doctor's voice; a female. Time ticks on. "We gave her some medicine to make her go to sleep, so we could do some gynecological tests without it upsetting her."

"What's that? Gynecological?" I look at Mitchie's confused eyes, her smiling face. I don't understand.

"It's to see if the rape harmed any of her internal body systems." Her too clinical voice tells me I'm getting the watered down, little kiddie version of this story. But that's fine for now, I guess. I'm not sure if I could handle a real explanation.

"And did it?"

"Only two of them come back this quickly- and she tested negative for both. We're hopeful the other results will come back with the same."

"How long will that take?"

"A couple of days."

A couple of days came and went, and Mitchie got out of the hospital just fine. Margaret has been taking care of us like we're her daughters, putting us up in a hotel room and giving us food. We haven't had a chance to get clothes yet, but today is the day, it would seem. I feel horrible getting so much for her at no cost, but she says not to worry about it. Apparently, her racist, sexist, homophobic (whatever that means) grandfather just died and left her a big chunk of money. She laughs and says she can't think of a better way to honor his memory than by helping us out. Then she always winks, which I'm not sure what that means, either. She also says that we gave her inspiration to chase the dream she's been putting off for years in hopes of finding a husband. I am still shocked that I have the power to affect someone that profoundly.

We're finally free of that horrible hospital, and I hope as hard as I can that I never have to set foot in one again until the day I die. I don't know if I'll be able the memories before that day comes. Mitchie and I have been in the same clothes since our escape four days ago, neither of us have spoken much. We haven't done much of anything but sit together, huddled on the bed in the hotel room while Margaret tries to explain "simple" machines to us, like the TV and the computer and cars. Every time I start to feel less depressed, some random tic sets me off and I fall straight back to the bottom again. It's a good thing Mitchie's here, or I would've run away by now and probably end up dead in some gutter. According to Margaret, that's an expression they have here. There is so much to learn, it's overwhelming.

"Here's one of the finest establishments in this world. Well, it ain't all that fine, but it's cheap and good," Margaret tells us as we pull up into the parking lot of a store that seems almost as big as the hospital. It has the word "Target" written over it in big red letters.

"What's it the target of?" I ask, only to be greeted by Margaret's laughter. I like the bit of extra twang in her laugh that gives it something special, something different than I've ever heard. She says that it's just because she's from the South, but I think it's because she's Margaret.

"Nothin'. That's just the name of the company. They make everything you'll ever need- which is why you girls have to get moving! We've got lots of shopping to do!" Margaret is positively giddy at this prospect, while Mitchie and I aren't sure how to react. "Aw, c'mon; y'all are girls!"

Mitchie looks at me a giggles a little bit behind her hand at how overtly unfeminine I am. I want to slap her, but her giggles look so damn cute that I can't bring myself to stop them. "Actually," I say, since she's not talking, "we've never been shopping. For anything. At Havenwood, everything was just, you know, there."

"Well, 'round here, girls go out shopping for fun. Tryin' on different clothes some weird ones, just to make ya look silly," Margaret explains.

This seems to appeal to Mitchie as she stops giggling and focuses on our new guardian. "That doesn't sound awful."

I shrug. "I didn't realize that this was a recreational activity. Maybe I could have some fun."

"It's OK, darlin'. You don't seem the type to be int'rested in this sort of thing anyhow," Margaret says as she exits the car.

This kind of puts me out, even though I can see it greatly entertains Mitchie. "What do you mean?"

"She means you're not much of a girl, Alex," Mitchie says with a giggle. So damn cute.

"Here, it's called a tomboy, when a girl don't like to do girly stuff," Margaret explains. She then waves to a man dressed in a button-down shirt with rolled up sleeves and these sort of tan colored pants. His smile gives away how eager he is to meet us, how much this means to him. Maybe Margaret's boyfriend? Brother? Cousin? I don't know.

She greets him with a firm handshake, which probably means that they aren't that close. As though she becomes suddenly scared, Mitchie grips my hand with her own, probably cutting off bits of circulation. It's OK, though. I assume that this new man kind of resembles Rodney, or someone else walking by does. And then, from the bottommost depths of my heart, a thought pushes its way out that Max is in the crowd today, and all I have to do to get him back is snatch him up once I spot him. But the high wave of hope is followed by an even more crushing depression. Suddenly shopping sounds like an inane waste of time, something totally pointless in the grand scheme of things and I want no part in it.

Every- single- nerve in my body shrieks in the agony of coming so close to finding my brother again and it takes all of my willpower (plus of some of Mitchie's) to concentrate on what this new man is saying to keep my mind off this torture, to keep my fists from flying, to keep my tears from falling.

The man doesn't offer his hand to us, probably guessing by our body language that we couldn't be more confused if we tried. "Hello, my name is Tom. I work with Child Protective Services. What we do is, we take children who have been abused by their parents or guardians or for some reason do not feel safe at home and we give them a new place to live where they don't have to be scared anymore.

Where they don't have to be scared anymore. What an alien feeling it would be, to feel safe. A day has never gone by when I haven't been afraid for someone or something. He's promising peace, which I've never known. I'm almost terrified to experience it, ironically. What if it doesn't live up to my expectations? I don't know if I would be able to handle that.

"We're going to get some clothes right now. Tonight, the police we'll be raiding your compound and rounding up all the people you listed at the hospital." Tom's smile is large and genuine, making me feel as though something horrible could really happen to Rosslyn, my parents, Damien... everyone. I turn to tell this to Max, who by all means should be standing next to me, but he's not. Once again, I can barely keep myself from collapsing. I don't even try to stop the steady stream of silent tears that fall from my eyes now. No one else acknowledges my breakdown, which I take as a sign of respect.

Target can be most accurately as a wonderland. Never have I seen so much clothing- so different- all in one place. And everything else! These things called watches and all the computers and TV's Margaret mentioned. And! They have games that you can play on the computers and you push the buttons and it makes the characters move. It's like magic. Somehow, walking into that store lifts the weight off my shoulders and I feel giddy- like I'm experiencing the childhood I never had.

I try to let all thoughts of Max flow from my mind as though in my head, I am talking to him. I am telling him what's going on, telling him how much I wish he were here. And then there's all the energy I'm focusing on Mitchie: even with days of wear and tear on her dress, the way it spins around with her as she hurries through the aisles with a twinkling laugh is so much like magic.

And pants! My God. Never have I felt more liberated than while wearing those pants. They feel so much more natural to me, so much better than that horrible dress ever felt. Margaret tells me that I should check out the boys' section, but I stubbornly refuse, as though there's an invisible line barring me from entering. Though once I get over my fears, I realize that Margaret was right about boys' clothes; they are nice. I eventually settle on a mixture of things: some masculine, some feminine, some neutral. Margaret even lets me get a fedora, which is a very nice hat that I mostly decided on because after I put it on and went to look in the mirror, Mitchie sneaked up behind me and whispered in my ear, "I like that on you." I shivered and was very much sold on the idea of a fedora.

After the shopping ends, we part ways with Tom, who promises to keep us informed about any developments in the case against Havenwood. I can't wait for those bastards to get what they deserve- I am so fucking excited for that day.

"So how did you girls like shopping?" Margaret asks on the way back to the hotel.

"I thought it was a really fun way to spend the afternoon," Mitchie says, clearly enthused about the things she's bought. I am, too; they look very, very good on her.

"It was kind of neat to see the whole store with all this, you know, stuff," I admit.

Margaret can't hold in a great belly laugh. "One day, I'm gonna take you to Wal-Mart, Alex. It's gonna blow your socks off."

I wrinkle my nose in confusion. "What's Wal-Mart?"

"It's like Target, only tackier," Margaret laughs.

Back at the hotel, Margaret orders something called pizza for us. Mitchie is totally afraid of it at first, refusing to come close. I take a huge bite out of it, and it's certainly a hell of a lot better than most of the food at Havenwood. That isn't much of a surprise, though. Most everything about this world is better than Havenwood. Except for Max...

I can no longer hold in the sudden wails that erupt all over the pizza, all over dinner, and all over Mitchie as she swoops in to hold me tight. I can hear Margaret shuffling in her seat, trying not to bear witness to this intimate scene.

"Enjoy it, Alex; tell him about the pizza. Tell Max how good it is," she mutters into my ear, sending chills up and down and all around. Her words strike a chord with what I was trying to do in Target earlier. But-

"I can't, I can't!" My words come out panicked, quiet, desperate. I am clinging to her like a rock climber clings to the face of a sheer cliff, like a shipwreck victim clings to the last piece of driftwood, like a helpless baby clings to its mother, like helpless teenager clings to her lover.

She kisses me once, twice, three times; all fast and short, but all effective. They get me to look up at her and stare into her deep chocolatey gaze. "Listen to me- you're going to be fine, OK? We're all going to be fine." I wish I could believe her words, but right now, I feel as though they are just empty promises. Words, that's all they are. Nothing more than the marking of a passage of time.