On the nights I can't sleep, I've taken to sitting out on the fire escape with the cold metal biting into my palms as I lean forward. My hair blows back with the wind, frigid and biting, and my eyes fall shut as I concentrate on the city noise instead of the voices in my head.

Tonight is one of those nights, but rather than not being able to sleep, my problem is that I don't want to. I barely have control over my thoughts, and my dreams may as well be some sort of a hellish free-for-all.

There's only so much coffee can do for me, so after growing anxious about being cooped up in my apartment, I grab my keys and head down to the station. At least there I can be useful, instead of twiddling my thumbs doing nothing important.

There are only a few cars in the parking garage, no doubt belonging to detectives. For people in H2, there isn't really a clear set of work hours. People come and go as they please, following every small lead they get until the case is solved, or replaced with another. Pretty much all of us are workaholics. We don't know anything different.

I guess in a way everyone in the department is running from something, and keeping ourselves busy helps take the edge off.

I figure I could get started on another statement and find some way to make myself useful. I have a plethora of visions I can report and Chief is still here to keep that option open. I can see his car in the usual spot.

I take the stairs, jogging to keep a quick pace. When I reach the H2 floor, I see a few sleepy detectives typing away at computers and pouring themselves cups of coffee. The light in Chief's office is on, but when I see Stan is still working, I head to his desk instead.

"Aren't you supposed to be asleep?" Stan asks, not looking up from the report he's filing. I watch as his fingers fly across the keys, knowing he's probably been at work for hours. Once he settles into a rhythm, he can't tear himself away. I understand that all too well.

I lift a shoulder. "Probably. But I decided since I couldn't sleep I would make myself useful elsewhere. Can I help you with anything?"

"I've got this," he answers. "I was just making a few finishing touches. The case was an easy solve but sometimes I wish there weren't so many of these incidents. Too many good people die. It's a sad truth we have to face. But enough about that. How are you? You look terrible."

Laughing, I say, "Tell me what you really think."

He's not wrong. I always look stressed and weary, but it's definitely gotten worse in light of recent events.

"You been busy lately?" he asks, eyeing me. "You look like you've slept less than usual."

"I'm okay," I tell him, even though it's not entirely true. "It's just been chaotic with school and coming here."

"Chief likes you," Stan observes. "Not that I don't like having you around, kiddo, but you can probably get his approval for a few days off to catch up on college and sleep. Besides, things have been a bit quieter lately."

There have been considerably fewer phone calls in the past week, but that happens every so often. It calms down a few minutes, then it spikes again. It's a constant cycle, that's for sure. Just because it's quiet now doesn't mean it will be tomorrow or next week.

"I'm okay," I insist. "How much of the write-up do you have left?"

"Just finished," he announces, emailing it to Chief. "What time is it?"

I look down at my watch. "Almost three."

Stan gives a low whistle. "My wife is going to kill me. I better head out. Do you need a ride?"

"No," I tell him. "But thank you. I have my bike."

"Do you know how dangerous those things are?" He raises his eyebrows, reaching for his coat.

"You and my mother agree on that. I'll be fine."

"I hope so. Take care of yourself."

"You too," I call after him.

"Of course, Violet."

I watch him walk away, his hands stuffed in his pockets. It's conversations like this, however short they might be, that remind me that life can be good. He's a good friend, a good person.

After Stan's left, I head over to Chief's office, my fist raised to knock when he opens the door. Startled, he looks at me with obvious confusion. "Carrigan? What are you doing here?"

I rub the back of my neck, feeling a bit out of place. "I couldn't sleep so I figured I would come down and see if there was anything I could do to make myself useful."

Chief holds my gaze a few seconds. "Go home," he finally says. "I'm heading out and I'm pretty sure Walsh just left too. You need your rest."

"Are you sure there's nothing I can do?" I press.

He sighs. "Not yet. Just head home, Carrigan. There's really no need for you to be here at this hour. Honestly, there's no need for any of us to be here at this hour."

"Okay. I'll see you later, Chief." I have no intention of leaving. I'll be finding some busy work when he's out of view. I know he means well, but I'm not ready to go. The words are for his benefit, so he doesn't worry about me.

"Drive safe," he calls, his keys banging against each other as he goes to lock his office.

I find my desk and pull up the files for the Grant case, trying to examine the evidence. Who knows? Maybe we're missing something. I know it's a longshot to hope I'll find a lead when I'm not a professional and sleep-deprived, but I'm willing to try.

My eyes grow heavier as I scroll, skimming the reports in progress, scoping out the photos of the scene. I've seen it all before, and it's hardly in a new light. In an hour, I've gotten nowhere. I'm not going to give up on this case though, and I know Joel and Stan won't either.

I won't let this go back into the filing cabinet. No way.

I don't know when it happens, but initially, I'm upright with my head propped up, and the next moment, I'm slumped forward with my cheek against the wood of the desk. Passing out is almost instant.

It feels like I'm in Nightmare on Elm Street. I keep fearing the second I might close my eyes, like a murderous villain is waiting in my dreams, but even Freddy Krueger seems better than the nightmares I know are waiting.

Sometimes, the dreams are people I love meeting their ends. Each one plays out like a terrible scene I can't prevent. Sometimes, I dream of my death. And sometimes, I just remember all the horrible things I've witnessed and all the people I couldn't help.

Today, it's a ticket down memory lane.

My first kiss was with a boy named Mikey Walters at a Christmas party when I was fifteen. Thankfully, I could act like the gloves I was wearing on my hands were solely because it was cold out. I had avoided touching anyone all night.

Since we were on the back porch with a few bottles of spirits some kids swiped out of their liquor cabinets, I could wear my jacket and keep myself guarded. I had been vision free up until that point.

I was invited by a girl named Emily Raymond, who wanted to have the biggest party our freshman class had ever seen. She probably didn't know my name, nor did she care to learn it, but she still handed me an invitation in third period English and left it at that.

I still can't tell you why I attended, nor why I thought it would be a good idea to go to a place I was hardly welcome at, but it doesn't really matter.

I had braces on my teeth and I was still a clumsy little fifteen-year-old who no one really paid any mind to. I spent most of the party finding corners to hide in and occasionally gawking at people who made eye contact, but for the most part, I remained a social recluse.

Until Emily decided to initiate a game of "spin the bottle" and sent me into a tailspin.

It was such a cliche game to start at a high school party, not that any of the other people really cared. I didn't want to play, but Emily snagged my wrist and sat me down beside her in the circle, setting an empty bottle of wine in the center.

All it took was a spin. Emily kissed Jack, one of the cuter boys in our grade, and a few girls sighed in envy. Naturally, it took a good twenty minutes for it to be my turn for a spin. I was shaking as I gripped the neck of the bottle and gave it a twirl.

For a few seconds, all I could hear was the sound of the glass scratching against the patio before it stopped.

Mikey looked triumphant as he took a few steps until he was right in front of me.

I had never touched him before now, so I knew what was coming.

I figured I was supposed to be giddy, excited to finally be kissed by a boy. But my stomach had plummeted down to my knees and my palms were sweating inside the stupid gloves I was wearing.

He kissed me.

He tasted like cheap wine and he tried to shove his tongue in my mouth, but it was over in seconds.

The vision was the cherry on top. The perfect end to a forgettable kiss.

I could see him loading a gun, lifting it to his temple with shaking hands. He was crying, distraught, desperate to die. The shot was quick. The death was quick. The sight of blood splattered all over the bathroom mirror and gray matter covering the floor as his body dropped like a stone was enough to send me running away from the circle sobbing. I hurled into the nearest trash can I could find.

He was one of the first suicides. It scarred me forever.

"You must be a bad kisser, Mikey," one of the boys teased.

He was, but that wasn't why I was so upset. There was no way for me to explain, no way for me to put into words the horrible thing I had witnessed.

No one knew Mikey was suffering from major depressive disorder until he shot himself shortly after graduation. It was shocking to everyone except for me.

After that disastrous encounter, I ran the whole way home as fast as my legs could carry me. Mom was already asleep, so I was able to fall into my bed and cry myself to sleep without her asking me what was wrong.

I couldn't look at Mikey for weeks.

I never spoke to him again.

I wanted to. I wanted to tell someone that he was going to commit suicide. No one would have guessed, no one would have believed that one of our high school's golden boys was falling apart. I would have sounded nuts, so I stayed quiet. I couldn't tell someone I'd seen the future. That would be too weird, too out there. It would've been completely unbelievable.

There were a lot of people like Mikey. No other visions back then were a suicide, but many felt like something I might've been able to stop. Like the junior girl who crashed her car because she was texting or the teacher hit head-on by a drunk driver.

Powerless. That's what I am. A puppet who can't change the stars, who can't save anyone.

My night consists of waking up over and over, tears flowing down my cheeks as one memory leaves and another takes its place. I toss and turn on the desk for a few minutes, fall asleep again, and it all repeats. Another person, another life lost.

Though, by now, I'm used to it.