The Shame of the Clean Exit

My first clean decision in weeks, and I nearly ruined it by waiting to feel triumphant. Calling the police instead of trying to recover the carrier felt sensible in theory. Sitting beside the invoice afterward, it felt like handing Rale the win because I was afraid of the guard and the canal.

That distinction matters. Fear made me run. Fear did not make me call the Metropolitan Police or memorize the warehouse address. I want credit for the second part, though I suspect I mainly wanted my fear to have left some useful evidence behind.

I looked at today’s selfie and hated how almost cheerful I appeared. The camera caught my face before it understood what had happened. I wanted to delete it, then kept it because pretending I had not shaken would be dishonest. At least the picture lies less than my public laugh does.

The knee is already settling into tomorrow. That will remind me what the guard nearly took from me. I am keeping a private score now: every place that has beaten me, every one I have escaped, and every time I chose safety after pretending courage had forced the decision.

Rale may still reach whatever he is chasing before dawn. I cannot control that now. The cruel thought is that the police may recover it too, and I will have been right without being the one holding it.