PART 1
The coffee in my mug was instant, black, and bitter enough to strip the enamel off a tank. It was the only thing grounding me in the reality of 7:00 AM in a Brooklyn apartment that smelled faintly of old plumbing and lemon polish.
I stood at the counter, staring at the hairline crack running down the side of the white ceramic. It was a structural failure waiting to happen. Just like me.
My thumb traced the rim. I didn’t need much. My life had been whittled down to the essentials: a bed, a stove, a lock on the door that I’d reinforced three times, and a silence that was loud enough to drown out the echoes of Kandahar if I concentrated hard enough.
I looked down at my clothes. The gray cardigan was unraveling at the left cuff, soft as tissue paper from a hundred washes. My jeans were worn at the knees. To the average observer, I looked like a woman who was barely holding on. A woman who clipped coupons and took the bus because the subway was too expensive. A woman who was invisible.
That was the point. Invisibility was the best armor I had left.
My phone buzzed against the laminate counter, vibrating like a trapped insect. The screen lit up, slicing through the dim morning light.
