The boys in my middle school class used to come to this gas station to buy them, though the closest that most of them ever got to using them was to laugh at the names like French Tickler. Luckily, there was also a box of garden-variety Trojans. I bought a pack for $1.50, tossed out the box, and stuffed the three foil packages into my pocket.

I did my best to freshen up at the sink. I hadn't showered for more than a day, and I'd spent all night outside. I washed my face and armpits with hand soap, brushed my teeth with a travel toiletry kit that I'd stolen from the mini-mart shelves, and I ran water through my hair. But that was as good as it was going to get.

It occurred to me that I was truly homeless. I'd slept in a gully, stolen spare change from Huntington's donations, and now here I was bathing in a dingy gas station bathroom.

I was also starving.

My weird craving for a cheeseburger and a milkshake had morphed, strangely, into a craving for anything with lots of calories, preferably sweet. This was strange, because normally I'd never had much of a sweet tooth.

I grabbed a plastic bag from behind the counter and stuffed it with whatever I could find on the shelves: teriyaki jerky, Pop Tarts, Snickers bars. Not exactly a square meal, but my options were limited.

I had two quarters left. That meant I would be able to make two phone calls.

I had no choice but to use one quarter to call Jason now and save the last one to call Chris later, hopefully after I'd stolen Jason's access card.

I put one quarter into the pay phone, slipped the last one into my breast pocket along with the pills, and dialed the number listed next to Jason's name in the phone book.

I hoped to God it was the number for his cell. And that he'd actually pick up. . .

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