“The scene opens with our heroine taking a shit in an asylum bathroom,” Erin repeats out loud, scribbling broken cursive on the inside of the stall door. An attendant shifts from foot to foot by the hand dryers, waiting, patiently or not, for an excuse to stop staring at the puddle of rust-colored filth growing under the row of sinks.

     “What’s taking so long?”

     “It’s a lot harder being a coke mule than you’d think, after seeing it done in the movies. They make it look so glamorous, all glitter and sunglasses… feather boas.”

     The attendant adjusts the rolled sleeves on her shirt absentmindedly. “That’s stupid.”
     “Well.” Erin’s hand hesitates over the toilet paper for a moment before pushing it downward, rolling with a muted click, click, click. “The truth usually is.”