I made a mistake when I started dating Derek. And one more when I let him convince me that everything happening between us is normal. And I’m still making mistakes. Evidence is right in the mirror again: my lips are split, bruises are on my neck, and there’s emptiness in my eyes. For a whole year, I can’t get out of the choking web of our relationship. He either orders my food from my favorite restaurant, or makes me stand on the porch in icy rain, locking the door with a key. With him, I never know what will happen in the next minute—like I’m walking through a minefield or crossing a rotten bridge. Like I’m playing Russian roulette. Like I’m drinking vitamins from a bottle where one of the capsules is cyanide. But there’s someone who restores my sense of balance: the courier who brings us food. He’s a random person I practically know nothing about. Sometimes we talk at the threshold. Yesterday he asked if I was okay, and it shocked me to the core. If Derek is pure cyanide, then maybe there’s also a man—an antidote?