Gina hadn't been fucked up for two years. Not since Joey. Not since Angelo. That was supposed to make things better, like you could live right if you weren't high, like everything could work out if you got yourself straight.

But fairy tales were only real when the rest of the world wasn't. When everything was rainbow-edged and far away Gina was sure her life was fucking fine, everything was fine, and if it didn't last at least you could have it again the next night, or maybe next week, or whenever Joey showed up with a stash and some grubby tens and twenties shoved in his jeans pocket. Gina never asked where the money came from. That sure as shit didn't matter when her hands were shaking so bad she couldn't keep the lighter-flame from trembling under the little scrap of tin foil and her life was only as long as the next few seconds, the next almost-forever, and then she was flying.

Sometimes after pulling ten or twelve hours at the drive through she got the feeling like coming down. The manager's yell and the grease-yellow light of the kitchen fought through a wall of dizziness to reach her. Those hands that might be hers poured coffee from a million miles away. That voice mumbling "will that be everything for you thank you have a nice day" into the headset might be taking a detour through her throat but it didn't belong to her. And everything hurt and nothing was ever going to be better.

Angelo was supposed to make it better. Even if Joey couldn't fix her life, babies were supposed to be cute and cuddly and loveable. She should have known having a so-called family wouldn't help. The fairy tale said you could undo the damage your own family did, and that was another lie. When Angelo was shrieking his lungs out or puking or shitting his pants again when she'd run out of diapers, she knew why her dad was so quick with his fists, why her mother screamed, why she'd run away and just kept running.

Joey didn't see it like that. He'd show up out of the blue with some crappy toy and even if Angelo was colicky or miserable with hunger, Joey always wanted to hold him. He watched Angelo like he was a goddamn miracle, and Gina hated herself for thinking of him like a thing. Another thing to take care of, to be responsible for, when she couldn't even take care of herself. She was drowning, and nobody knew it but her.

Joey's dad had that about him, too--the feeling like he believed if he tried hard enough he could have the fairy tale. She wanted that for Angelo. She wanted to hold him forever and never let him go, and she wanted to go out and get fucked by whoever would throw enough cash in her face to let her get smashed, and she wanted to claw her way to the surface again, and she wanted to open her mouth and breathe in the water.

At night, Gina stared at the ceiling, feeling her bones buzz with hurt and tiredness and thinking about getting a fix. She let the tears run down her face and struggled to grab one more breath, listening to the small baby-sounds of Angelo in his crib.

She woke up with Spyder's sawed-off shot-gun digging into her collarbone.

In the cab, she sat on the edge of the seat holding Angelo, stroking the soft hair off his milk-smelling skin, thinking maybe it was worth it. That maybe she could forget about getting high, wondering where Joey was, if he'd really killed that guy. If the cab ride lasted forever, or a second, or an hour, Gina could hug Angelo's small warm body and pretend.

At the payphone, clutching the receiver like a lifeline, she listened to Joey's dad's canned voice promising her that it would all work out. Promising her the fairy tale. Promising her forever.

She couldn't listen because all she was hearing was the surge and swell of waves roaring over her head. She was drowning; she was dying; she was running away. She knew that the phone was spitting lies at her. She didn't even deserve those empty words.

Because in the fairy tale, she would never want to run again.

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May 10, 2004