She had just lost a case, her client a girl whose parents wanted her to get conversion therapy. The girl, at sixteen, had wanted to be emancipated, free to live with her girlfriend’s parents. The judge disagreed. After the verdict, Lucy hit the most unprofessional moment of her career and advised the girl to run, causing the girl to burst into sobs.  Lucy then went to her office, stuffed her water bottle and a pair of walking shoes into her oversized Gucci, got into the car and drove.

With one hand on the wheel, an eye trained on the road, Lucy slipped off her heels, switching feet on the gas pedal until she could drive barefoot. Green Swamp. She’d never been there, but she saw a sign for it, and now she couldn’t make herself turn around.  The thought that she wasn’t going home, not tonight, maybe not ever, made her want to stop thinking. If she allowed her mind to drift towards the practicalities of money, food, clothing, or a place to sleep, she knew she would turn around and re-enter the hamster wheel that was her life, make more mistakes, hurt more people. The system was too entrenched, the infestation of prejudice too far spread. Lucy felt like she could not breathe, and at home, it wasn’t any better.

By the time she arrived at the park, most of the cars were headed out rather than in. It was winter. The nights were growing cooler and the days shorter. She’d have an hour of light at most. She parked close to a trailhead and headed straight for the river, following the path through the brush. The first few breaths of fresh air in her lungs pumped her up with joy. Then the phone dinged.

Tonya: They told me you’d left the office already?

Lucy considered how to explain. She had talked to Tonya about the case, told her already that it wasn’t going well.

“Don’t get too attached,” Tonya had said, predictably. “You know how you can get about these things. It’s just one case. It’s not the end of the world.”

It was for this one girl, though, wasn’t it? Lucy considered tossing the phone in the swamp.

She held her breath for courage and typed: Remember when we talked about traveling to Belize and Botswana?

She waited. No response.

After a few minutes, Lucy typed: It’s Friday. I feel like I need to get out of town. I’m at Green Swamp. We can camp. Hike. Have fun.

Lucy had reached a small beach, where a father and child stood side by side, fishing rods in hand, enjoying the lingering twilight. The chirring of crickets and the birds rushing to peck at insects before dark made her think about spending the night, sleeping right on the moss and soft loam, gazing at the star-dotted sky.  Her phone dinged.

Tonya: Chiggers.

Lucy stared at the single word on her phone screen.

Tonya: Tell me you’re not going to be late for dinner again. I asked you.

The sun had nearly set. The sky was torn in red and orange wounds of light. The wind had picked up, and sand stung her skin. Tonya would be setting the table right now, spooning food into the serving plates, lighting the candles. She’d have dimmed the lights in the living room and set the music to something jazzy and cool, Nina Simone, or Nora Jones.  What was she doing out here, anyway? Hiding. That’s what Tonya would say. “Losing is part of the process. It’s part of the fight. If you can’t handle it, then get out.” If she left now, she might still make it. She would be only a little late.

She turned to the brush and headed for the trail. Something caught her hair – a branch? It tangled stubbornly, but she broke off the tiny branch and hurried down the path. As she sighted the wood bridge that led to the parking lot, a sharp sting on her shoulder made her wince. She touched what felt like the edge of something spiny. A cocklebur, likely. She felt for it in the dark, but she was wearing a silk blouse, and for fear of ruining it, she did not want to pull at it without seeing first how it had caught. Her shoulder burned first, then itched.

When she got home, Tonya had already put Lucy’s dinner in the oven on warm. She said, “Text me when you’re going to be late,” and kissed her on the lips. Lucy nodded, her eyes averted as she put away her briefcase. In the bathroom she took off her blouse and examined her shoulder in the mirror, spotting a tiny bruise that was sore to the touch. She shook the blouse, felt every inch of it with her fingers, but no cocklebur.

After dinner, she cuddled with Tonya on their leather couch and watched a re-run of The Honeymooners. She noticed that Tonya had re-shelved the books Lucy had left near her computer and she had arranged Lucy’s papers in stacks. The mild itching on her shoulder almost matched her annoyance at Tonya’s disruption of her planned disorder. Jackie Gleason shouted, “You’re a blabbermouth, a blahhhhbbermouth,” slamming his large hand on an egg timer. Lucy slipped into the bathroom and applied a dot of antibiotic on her shoulder bruise.