Page 87 of Assassin Anonymous

“But he’s Hitler. Doesn’t he deserve to die?”

She doesn’t sound like she’s taunting me now, not exactly. She sounds genuinely curious.

“You could make that argument. But this is a thought experiment.”

We drive in silence for a little. Then she says, “You know what pisses me off the most, though?”

Before I can ask what, something smashes into the side of the van and my stomach lurches as we go airborne. I ricochet off the hard surfaces, trying to protect my head, which is impossible with my hands behind my back, and when we finally come to a rest, I think upside down, my vision is fuzzy and my brain feels like a half-deflated and well-used soccer ball.

“Astrid?” I ask.

No answer.

The back door opens behind me. I can’t see who it is, but I can venture a guess. Before I can say something smart, a canister lands next to me, spitting out white vapor. I’m too winded to hold my breath, and it smells sweet, and then…

12

Grace means that all of your mistakes now serve a purpose instead of serving shame.

—Brené Brown

Lower East Side

One Year Ago

“I’m glad to see you again,” Kenji says.

He’s standing with his hands tucked inside his long black jacket, and he offers me a little bow. I offer one in return. He’s a bit older now, his hair a little more gray, but he looks different than that last time I saw him, on that snowy rooftop.

He doesn’t seem as burdened.

He also snuck up on me, which is a hard thing to do. I guess some skills never go away.

“Long way from Prague,” I tell him.

“Would you walk with me, Mark?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, sensing I will. We weave though the dense crowd on Delancey Street. It’s a Tuesday. Three whole days since I tried to end my own life and then found P. Kitty, and I’m taking that as a win. The thought of finishing the job snuck up a few times since then and lucky for me the cat would always do something dumb—go in the bathroom and cry at the tub or fall off the bookcase.

It was just enough to get me to open the paper crane, inside of which was the password for the forum on the Via Maris: anxious phoenix.

We walk for a bit until Kenji stops in front of a dilapidated church. The doors are painted red, worn and beaten by age. The stone façade is crumbling. Had we not stopped here, I might have walked past and not even registered it.

“Do you know the story of St. Dymphna?” Kenji asks.

“I know there’s a bar in Alphabet City named after him. That’s the best I got.”

Kenji nods. “Her. St. Dymphna was a princess, born in Ireland in the seventh century. When she was fourteen she swore a vow to Christ. Shortly after, her mother died. Her father was a petty king. He took the death very hard and searched far and wide, looking for a woman to marry who matched his wife’s beauty. He eventually settled on his own daughter.”

“Gross,” I tell him.

He doesn’t laugh. “She fled to Belgium, where she opened a hospital for the poor and sick. A year later her father found her, and when she rejected his advances, he cut off her head.”

“That’s some real family dysfunction there.”

Kenji turns and gives me a hard little stare.

“Sorry,” I tell him. “Please.”