My tent is waiting for me, calling me home, door still unzipped, and I duck down and drag the body under the open flap. I leave my backpack outside, set away so it doesn’t catch fire. My tent is set in a crevice away from the others, so it will burn safely, alone.
I find the heater in Michael’s loftier tent. I don’t know how to turn it on, let alone how to make it catch fire, but I find a bottle of vodka and I take it back to my tent and pour it over everything. Then I hesitate, heart racing, trying to pound its way free of my chest.
I look at her face one last time, because I think I should. I force myself to do it. Mourn her, I think. But I don’t know her and I never will. So instead, I thank her.
I step outside. The cold air brushes my cheeks.
I light her on fire.
DEMI
I drive through the hills, getting lost on purpose. Michael is asleep in the front seat, unburdened, while I climb up and up into the hills, adrenaline pumping, every shadow a cop chasing me, every light a chance to be seen.
I end up outside a park cradled in the hills, looking out over the Westside, all the way to the ocean. Below me, a reservoir gleams.
I never knew there was a lake here. All my life and I never went this high. I watch it for a while through the chain-link fence. Then I exit the car with a bag of hands and feet and teeth.
I am drenched in sweat as I walk along the asphalt road that circles the lake. I feel like I have never felt, and there is something awesome in that. I can feel my old self dying, like the fire I set was inside me, but I am still carrying my body. And then, blinking through the trees with the sun, is another existence, the person I am becoming: Demi on a morning walk in the chilling air.
I scale the fence. It’s easy. Everything is easy now.
I startle when I nearly run into seven deer. They all look at me, ears spread wide. I tell myself it’s a good omen, even though I stopped telling myself those kinds of stories.
I walk until I reach the water; then I weigh the bag down with rocks. I wade out into the lake, alone in the middle of this monstrous city. There are bigger rocks beneath my feet and I dive down and lift them. I bury her parts underneath.
When I crest the surface, I gasp for breath. The lake glitters all around me, beautiful, laughing. It’s laughing at me for being the last ugly thing in a beautiful world.
I swim to the shore. I watch the sun flush through the valley, bringing it to light. I see blood spattered in the dirt and don’t know if it’s hers or mine. I use her shoe to cover it.
The sun rises. I try to say a prayer but all I can manage is You made this world. What did you expect?
* * *
WHEN I GET back to the car, Michael is gone. I have to remind myself that he didn’t vanish. He will come back. But the moment I think it, the thought disappears. I am free. Free of myself. Free of anything that ever held me back.
I drive back to the glass house. I do not miss a turn, the location already hardwired in my brain. I park on the street. As I am getting out of the car, I see Graham standing next to his Rolls, waiting for me.
“Demetria.” He smiles, waves, then hitches his leg and climbs into his car.
And I don’t even want to tell him, No, she’s burning in a break in the wall beneath the 101. I want to ask him about the stock market, suggest we all go skiing in Aspen. I want to tell him I am just like him now. Except I earned it. I earned it the same way every rich person does: by stepping over a body.
* * *
BACK AT THE apartment, I get down to business. I open her e-mail account and research her voice. I try to discover who she is, who I am in her, the hand in her sock. Then I find her lead at work and I send a sloppy e-mail:
This is so embarrassing but admitting you have a problem is the first step, so here goes. . . . I am drug addict. I regularly use heroin, OxyContin, even fentanyl. I have used them at work. Last night I had an overdose and slipped into a coma. The people with me thought I was dead. It’s only by the grace of God （Godette???） that I survived. I need to take some time out at a long-term rehab facility. I need to take a deep look at myself and figure out what went wrong, how I ended up here. . . . I hope you can support me.
I expect immediate approval; instead a barrage of e-mails comes through:
We need to TALK.
PICK UP THE PHONE
Her phone is gone. She lost it that night.
You can’t do this again.
We are well aware of your issues but WE NEED YOU AT WORK.
Everyone’s got problems.
I’m kind of shocked. If I’d admitted to using heroin at any of my small-time jobs, I would have been fired without compensation. I might have even been arrested. Demi’s lead doesn’t care that she almost （except actually） died.