Life’s not fair.

That’s what Momma always told Ginger.

Life’s not fair, Ginger Belle. So you best learn to accept it.

Sometimes Ginger wishes Momma were still alive so she could say: You were right. Always right. It’s not.

Only sometimes, though. Because it’s best Momma’s dead. Momma was the most unfair of all.

*

Ginger’s missing her NA meeting. She’s working. Looking for dates. Out by Raley Field, where the River Cats play (no game tonight).

Across the train tracks there’s a quiet road, Delta Lane. Trees. A lot where men might park their cars or trucks for a little while. Wait. Meet someone. Someone like her.

Ginger should be at NA. Really should be. Because she’s been off the Meth for a few weeks now. And it’s hard. Especially when a girl has to work. And most especially when that work is meeting men in the little parking lot back of some shuttered building on Delta Lane.

Life’s not fair, Ginger Belle.

OK Momma. We get it.

It’s been a long night and Ginger’s about ready to pack it in. She’s seen a few customers, but not many. She’s bone tired. Her feet hurt.

And she wants to score—which means she should get home quick. Call her sponsor.

Why hadn’t she gone to the meeting tonight?

Sure, she needs the money. But she always needs money.

Why you gotta be so damn stupid Ginger? Momma again.

But Ginger knows why.

*

It’s the woman. The woman who’s been sitting in the back row at her regular meetings for the last month.

Ginger can’t stand her. The way she mumbles, lets the hair hang in her face. The way her knuckles crack when she squeezes the back of the folding chair in the row ahead of her. Her dead-fish skin.

The way, sometimes, that lank brown hair parts and Ginger catches the look in that woman’s eyes. Hungry. One time, Ginger thought the left one was all deflated, hanging out of the socket. But it must have been the light in that little storefront where her NA chapter meets. Fluorescents, especially when they’re blinking, make everything creepy.

Ginger just couldn’t do it. Go back tonight. See that woman. And that's the truth. No matter how bad she’s feeling. And Ginger feels bad. Sick.

*

She’s walking back now, up Delta Lane; around the bend and toward the bus stop. Trying to convince herself: don’t do it. Don’t call him. You don’t need it. Just go home. Call your sponsor instead. Just go to—

The hand clamps around her mouth, cuts off her scream.

The fingers feel like rat tails, fat and strong, against her lips and chin. The other arm wraps around her neck and pulls her back. Hard. Toward the tree line. Ginger is fairly pulled off her feet. She pulls at the arm around her neck. To no effect.

But now there are stars in front of her eyes, and they are beautiful actually. And she’s being dragged back further into the trees and brush, hauled down to the ground. The arm loosens from around her neck and there’s another sort pressure at her throat now.

Her vision darkens further. Those little stars get brighter. And brighter.

Life is not fair, Ginger. And that’s the whole story.

Yes, Momma. The whole story.