Justine always ate lunch with Carol. Carol was 43, a dumpy woman with a failing marriage and a kid in juvie. Justine enjoyed knowing that there was someone with a more fucked up life than hers.

She sat silently while Carol droned on and on about her husband’s pornography addiction. Trying to look attentive, she watched Carol’s face and amused herself by drawing imaginary lines between the moles, creating a complicated topography that traversed craters and pimply hills. She imagined herself as a tiny microorganism making her heroic odyssey across Carol’s face, mapping out the path she would take from forehead to chin.

Justine was jolted from her uncharitable reverie when Carol casually said, “You know, we could say anything we want.â€?

“I’m sorry?â€? Justine asked.

“Well,â€? said Carol. “There’s no need to stick to things in books, right? We could say anything!â€?

Justine looked thoughtful. After lunch, she went back to her computer. She typed into the window: “Today, Justine decided to kill somebody.â€?