“Here,” Mom hands me twenty, just before leaving the apartment, “This should be enough for a drink and something to eat.”

“Thank you,” that’s what I have to say at first, then I smile and attempt to offer it back.

There has to be a reasonable pause before saying, “But don’t you need it more?”

“You’re going to the Little Springs Cafe?” she asks.

“Yes,” I respond.

Then I laugh because I thought of something funny, “Take a high schooler out for coffee on a school night.”

I joke with her, but she only gives me a brief smile.

“Be safe,” she tells me shortly, “I have to go. Do you want me to drive you?”

“Nope, I’ll take the bus, don’t want you to be late,”

She merely nods and leaves before me, I guess I passed some sort of test. It’s hard to determine what the test was, but I am only following the instructions that I have been told and given by her. I am wondering if I am only just going along with what other people have to say. This officer who supposedly is some kind of Phantom. I guess I also only do what my Mom says to do as well. If Karma is to be a bastion of the people, someone who implements justice. I think that if I want Troy to give me the truth; I need something to scare it out of him. I wonder if I could use the pen instead? I have his name and I know what he looks like. Wait, can I reverse the effects of the pen? Probably not, I’ll probably write his name later in the night if I don’t feel like he’s giving me an appropriate answer. It’s time I stop doing things people asked me to do and start making them do things I ask.

Finally leaving the apartment, just waiting for my Mom to be gone before me. The hallway smells like chemicals and cleaner, large fans drown out any noise. They finally got to cleaning the apartment next door. And there has been gossip in the apartment complex of a beautiful golden blonde man investigating the apartment early today.

I’ve been eagerly waiting for the news to mention Zoe’s death. Something Troy said he could get done. But hasn’t. No one is talking about Karma, well, no one besides the Oakside Police Department.

I was hoping people would start talking about Karma. Actual people, not the police. Instead, I am being investigated for no good reason. I guess I have to adjust my methods, it’s not like I have done this before. I thought that seemingly unconnected events wouldn’t catch too much attention, but I guess it did, and now I have to rally the people to stand with Karma and against the police.

Having a cop, whether he is or isn’t a Phantom, is going to be helpful. Right, all I need to do is pull his strings and use him before he attempts to use me because he thinks I am a naïve teenager.

Stepping outside, nighttime in downtown feels different from daytime. Growing up here, I still notice the change. It’s heavier, it feels blacker despite the orange streetlights. It always feels like there is someone standing over your shoulder or following you. The bar across the street is crowded as always. People spill out onto the streets and it’s only 6 in the evening, it’s going to get busier and busier over night. The buses stop running in the lower part of Oakside around 9. While the buses in the mid and upper parts of town run until 12.

People downtown never think people are watching them, they don’t even notice when people are watching them. And I am sure they don’t feel the change in air. It’s harder to breathe. Though that’s not from any smog or pollution. It’s hard to explain that the air is like static, it enters your lungs like dragging your feet along the carpet. And the static clings to your skin like sticky syrup. The hairs on your arms stick and cling onto each other. Shadows move from one patch of darkness to the next. While some cling to people.

Heading to the bus stop, I cannot help but feel the police are hypocrites. I am watching a man who hasn’t noticed me, watching a young woman in a tight sequin dress. It clings to her skin, exposing her shoulders and legs. He thinks he is being sly; he thinks no one notices him as he attempts to sneak a picture of her legs on his phone. There’s a person the police could deal with, a pervert, who is so brazen enough to take pictures of a woman’s legs in public because he knows he won’t get caught. Why don’t they do their actual job? What is justice to them? What do they define as justice?

The man finally looks over at me, “Bus is a bit late.” he attempts to evade the actual topic. He hopes I didn’t notice.

“Is that why you take pictures of woman’s legs instead? To pass the time?” I ask him, not afraid to confront him.

“Excuse me,” the man huffs defensively, “Don’t go accusing people of shit they didn’t do.”

“Darn, I should have taken a picture of you taking a picture,” I tell him.

“You keep talking to me like that kid-

-you’ll what? Because I am so scared of a cowardice pervert,” I tell him.

The bus arrives before he can respond. He grabs a backpack that’s been resting on the side of the bench. An idea has popped up into my head. She’s probably not the first woman he’s taken a photo of before. I just wait for him to get on the bus before me. His backpack is so full of textbooks, and other things. He has to wrestle with the side pocket of the backpack to take out his wallet to get out his bus pass.

“How’s your class been going?” the driver asks him, while he puts his wallet back distractedly.

The driver is right there. And he’s standing right in front of me. There’s a rush of excitement, at least I think that’s what this feeling is. I reach for the side pocket. My hands touch the tip of the wallet;

“Oh, you know, I am not breaking a sweat,” the pervert responds.

I tug slowly to slip the wallet out of the side pocket. Once it comes out of the pocket, there’s a moment of waiting. Did anyone notice?

“Hahaha, right big old genius you are,” the driver states, “Well, it’s good seeing you, Alex.”

Quickly shoving the wallet into the pocket of my windbreaker, no one noticed me. The bus driver looks at me, “Hey Quinn.”

“Oh, hi, Jacob,” I respond with a smile.

“How is your evening going?” he asks me.

“Fine, yours?”

“You know, working that grind,” Jacob laughs.

I merely nod with a polite smile. I took a man’s wallet with no one noticing. What do I do with it, anyway? I cannot return it. And is petty negative actions really who Karma wants to focus attention on? I don’t know.