Tammy sat unmoving under the bright lights on a plastic chair. She was in the police station. Again. The hardest part was always waiting, she thought. Waiting for the officers to come out and tell her what she was supposed to do. What they wanted her to do. She used to look at the room, memorizing the floor and the walls and the ceiling. But she had memorized all that long ago. She looked at the others in the room, but they no longer interested her. She didn’t feel the need to imagine names, crimes, and life stories for them anymore. She pulled a pen from her battered pocket and started doodling on her arm, weaving vines and flowers and lines between and around the knife wounds, razor cuts, and needle holes. She finished with an embelleshed “Tammy” on the palm of her hand. Tammy frowned at her name, thinking once again how she hated it. Should she change it? To “Tam” or “Tay” or something…no. She wouldn’t give that up. She’d already given up everthing else, but she wouldn’t give up the thing she hated most.