“I don’t like this,” she murmured, tracing idle circles into the wooden tabletop. “I don’t like any of it. My shirt keeps sticking to me and it’s been raining for thirty days at least. Damn summer weather.” Outside the storm had just passed, and steam rose off the asphalt in muggy tendrils. The kitchen was quiet in the afternoon, dimly lit by a window with pale yellow curtains. “I feel invincible,” she said. I stared at the curve of her shoulder and connected it to the dip in her collarbone. What a fucking joke.

But then, what did I know about courage? Superman’s invincible, but so are county prisoners.