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After you escape, drive to the police station. Run from the dark with your shoes in your hands. Pound on the glass separating you from the two female dispatchers. The clock’s black arms point to eleven.
          The Dispatchers raise their eyebrows in disbelief. One calls a detective out to meet you. He leads you into his office with his hand on his gun. He writes on a small pad of paper. You want to see it, but he leaves the room to make some calls. No, you can’t call your family. No, not any of your friends. He wants to take you back to the room you’ve just escaped. You’d rather have his gun, but do as he says. Wait alone in his car. Other police cars arrive. The building does not explode.
          At the hospital you’re met by a female officer and a social worker who looks like she might be somebody’s grandmother. Officer and Grandmother team up with Doctor. They want you to take off your clothes. She puts them into a Ziploc bag named Evidence.           Nice to meet you, Evidence.
          She takes pictures of your wrists and ankles. She speaks in two-syllable sentences.
          Rape kit.
          Sick hobby: it comes with instructions in Spanish, German and Japanese. Glue and little vials of brightly colored paint.
          Grandmother wants to hold your hand. Don’t touch her. She’s not your grandmother. Her skin is loose and clammy. She asks what kind of poetry you write as Doctor rips out fingerfuls of your pubic hair, spreads your legs and digs inside you with a long, stiff Q-tip. Don’t discuss it. Another Q-tip in your mouth for saliva.
          After the exam, Grandmother gives you a green sweat suit in a brown paper bag. You’re supposed to dress in the bathroom. Officer doesn’t acknowledge that you look ridiculous. Officer doesn’t acknowledge you at all. Follow her out to the parking lot, her squad car.
          Morning.
          The phone call wakes your parents out of bed. Mom answers; her voice is thick, confused. She says nothing for a long time. In the background, Dad gets dressed. Yesterday’s change jingles in his pockets. His voice buckles: Say we’re on the way.
          Detective follows you to your apartment in an unmarked white Crown Victoria. You ask him to wait outside. Big Sis left a message on your machine; she wants you to come stay with her. She’s bought a gun for the occasion. Pack some clothes: nothing that matches; nothing can be worn together.
          When your parents arrive, they take you to buy a cell phone. Mom has brought you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a snack-size bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. You’re not hungry, but the thought of her doing anything useless makes your stomach turn.
          Eat anyway.
          You spend the two-and-a-half-hour-long drive looking in the rearview mirror and trying not to fall asleep. When you get to Big Sis’s apartment, she carries your bag upstairs and says You look like shit. Under any other circumstances, you’d tell her to fuck off. Today it’s a small comfort. You do, in fact, look exactly as you feel.
          She isn’t able to get off work, so she shows you how to use the cable remote, loads the Gun, puts it in your hand. It’s heavier than you imagined. She’ll be at work until three in the morning, but if you need anything, her next-door neighbor, the Sheriff, knows what happened. He might come by to check on you. Please try not to shoot him.
          The whole time she’s gone, watch the closed-circuit channel showing the front gate of the apartment complex. Sit in the dark with the Gun in your hand and watch cars come through the gate. Who knows what you’re watching for. Watch anyway. The gray conversion van looks suspicious. Lights turn in the parking lot, crossing the face of your building. Open the blinds. This time you want to see it coming. Don’t eat. Don’t go to sleep. This time you’ll say nothing. You won’t ask for anything. This time you have a Gun. You’ll shoot his kneecaps off. Even after your sister comes home, drinks a beer, passes out beside you in the bed, fix your eyes on the dark.
          Wait.
          The next day, ask your sister to keep you company in the bathroom. She flips through a trashy celebrity magazine and talks absentmindedly about Cameron Diaz and Nicole Richie. As you’re getting out of the shower, she sees you naked. Oh my God. You think she’s seen a spider or a mouse, or another coked-out celebrity anorexic. Actually, it’s you. She stares at you for a long minute with her mouth open, hand to her lips. She leaves without saying a word.