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Rubbing my arms and wishing I’d grabbed my hoodie from my locker, I push hard up the incline, my thighs starting to burn. It’s dark outside, but the moon and the ferns outline the trail well enough to provide direction.

I’m cresting the hill when I look up and see someone walking toward me from the beach. Not walking—jogging. I see wide shoulders and stop abruptly. A strange man running toward you is never a good thing.

“What are you doing? Get back inside.” A barked order.

I stare dumbly; he can’t possibly be talking to me. Perhaps I’ve wandered off the trail and am walking somewhere I shouldn’t be, but no—this is the same path we use to get to and from the dock where the water taxi picks us up.

“Are you talking to me?”

“Do you see anyone else around here?”

I drop my chin. I don’t like his tone.

He’s an arm’s distance away from me when he stops; his scent arrives a second late—beer and cigarettes. I can make out a snub nose perched above rubbery, swollen lips.

“Who are you?” I swipe the hair out of my face, confused…a little scared too.

“I’m security. Who. Are. You?” He jabs a finger at me. He reminds me of a city cop in the movies, flashing around his East Coast accent, trying to act all old-school tough. He isn’t drunk, but he’s soggy around the edges like he’s getting there.

“I work here.” My whole body is flushing hot then cold, hot then cold. Men are dangerous. Men are more dangerous when they’re drunk.

“Funny,” he says. “I’ve worked here a long time and I’ve never seen you before, so you’re either new or stupid, or both.”

He’s trying to intimidate me. Years advocating for my sister in male-dominated spaces familiarized me with this species of anger.

“What’s your problem? I’m trying to take a walk.”

“If you worked here, you’d know you’re not supposed to be out here.”

“No one told me that,” I snap, taking a sideways step away from him. He is one of those guys that gets right in your face if you let them.

“Go back.” He points a finger in the direction of the hospital. I eye the scraggy patches of hair on his chin; he has a hunted, wild look about him, like a hyena.

I clench and unclench my hands to get the blood flowing. I’m scared, and I’m furious he’s making me feel that way. “Are you trying to scare me?”

“I’m trying to get you back inside… You’re picking a fight with the wrong person, little girl…”

“I’m not picking anything, I’m trying to take a walk, old timer.” My stubbornness keeps me glued to the spot. I should just go back, but I can’t—I’m committed to the fight he started.

My bad man alarm is screaming, and bad men make me angry.

“You pick fights with men who remind you of the men who took your sister.”My therapist, announcing the obvious, wasn’t something to get excited about, in my teenage estimation.

“Yes,”I’d said easily.“So what?”

“Soo, if you pick a fight with the wrong person, you could potentially end up hurt.”

Isn’t that the point? Why does anyone fight? It isn’t to feel good, it’s to feel.

What’s the point of what you’re doing right now?I ask myself.Because this isn’t going to help your sister…

Nothing can help your sister, you idiot, she’s dead.

Some of the air goes out of me.

“What’s your name?” I ask him.

He lets out a short burst of laughter. “You gonna report me to the higher authorities or something?”