Fowler’s position: You watched Memory as she slid into the seat of the sedan. The seatbelt at her shoulder was left undone. Her upper body raised at an angle. The glow of the dashboard glared against her sequined top; it was a metallic disco of reds and blues inside the car. All you saw of the john was a red spade tattooed on his index finger, tapping at the steering wheel. Probably a gambler coming off a late-night underground poker game, looking to celebrate. The bend of her knees was the last thing you saw as she shut the door and winked.

#

Three years ago, I received the same onboarding speech I now deliver to a new gal. Between the cracks and pops of my bubblemint gum, I do my best to remain casual. “Now, this block to this block is run by Ronnie. Over there and over there are not for us, do you understand me?”

The new girl is thin—an A-cup, or one of those half-cups they sell in department stores now. Nothing like my 34DD’s spilling over every respectable top I own.

“Do not go past the underpass with the three shopping carts linked together. A john tries driving an inch further—you get out of the car.”

“But what if it’s moving? The car. Can’t I call Ronnie for help?” The new girl bites at her lip and doesn’t break her gaze from the shopping carts. There’s no trip wire or alarm that will sound should we go past it—only an internal panic and sweat. No one likes to sweat in the outfits we wear.

On my first night, I asked Memory the same question the new girl asks me now, and all Memory did was laugh and tell me I had a lot to learn and how I might get us killed, thinking Ronnie would come to our rescue. Being undercover comes with rules, and as far as the other walkers know, Ronnie was Memory’s pimp and now he’s mine. He’s a lead detective, not a savior.

“Honey, we don’t want Ronnie around here unless there’s a body. And yes, if it’s moving. Them’s the breaks of the industry.” I channel Memory’s affectation. I need the new girl to know this is serious.

The confusion on the new girl’s face is rapt with an angelic quality. The first time on the corner is like this for everyone, undercover or not. Desperation tangled with fear oozes from her like pheromones signaling to predators, Come get me. Most of us didn’t come here out of want. No one signs up to hide in the shadows and step forth only when a john wants to buy us. For me, this is a job. For the other walkers, it’s a job too, but different.

“Okay.” Nervous, the girl brushes her blowout away from her face and takes inventory of the other walkers.

“That’s Cherry,” I say. There’s a blurry crew of women about twenty yards away, standing beneath a streetlight that flickers more than it doesn’t. They laugh and touch up their makeup. Cherry waves at me and nods at the new girl.

“She loves red. Always has and always will. Makes her easy to see at night. Then there’s Raven, who clawed a man’s eye out once for getting fresh with her without paying first.”

When Memory introduced me to the walkers they called me sugar and sweetie, all while applying lip gloss with the deft hands of painters. They’re sweet and look out for one another. None of us knows why the other is out here, and none of us ever will. Each walker closely guards the reasons for their own safety.

“Do you have any questions?”

“Do I go by Lily out here, or? Ronnie didn’t give me an alias.”

I’m not sure how someone who looks like her—blonde, blue-eyed, terrified of blinking—could be named anything other than Lily.

The streetlights displace halos of amber on the asphalt and over the top of the new girl’s head. The insects gather in groups. I don’t mind the buzzing or the way the moths and winged-things flit against my skin as I push through them, but this new girl swats them away, already bothered by things touching her skin for free.

#

Lithotomy position: Slow nights called for walking. The stroll was part of the lure, like trawling the banks of a river for the biggest bass. You swayed and laughed at the other girls as Memory rode by, a passenger in a john’s car. She wasn’t quite supine, but reclined enough in the front seat with her feet on the dashboard. Legs up help to loosen the hips ahead of time. She’d given you lots of tips like this over your time together. The car ended up parking at the end of the underpass in total darkness.

#

“Not out here you ain’t. Forget your real name and never tell a man, even if he begs and tips you a C-note. We fake reality out here to survive. Keep giving them aliases until they seem satisfied.”

Lily scratches at her fishnets. I don’t remember much of my first day, but I do know Memory chuckled when she saw me wearing pantyhose. When she ran her acrylic nail from my ankle bone to my hip bone, tearing the synthetic fibers in one fell swoop, I got the message—screw the stockings, this ain’t field work, and it sure as hell ain’t church.

An old Monte Carlo cruises through, slowing only momentarily to look the merchandise up and down. “See the broken side mirror and the missing brake light on the driver’s side?”

Lily nods.

“Remember at least two details.”

“What if I don’t get in his car?”

“Then remember three. We’re a family out here. If something happens to one of them, it’s only a matter of time before it happens to you or me. Details are the difference between being remembered or not, and most walkers won’t be remembered anyway, even if they make it off the corner. No one knows real names, or where the other lives.” I shrug off the reality of what I just said. These women—us—we’re looked over, looked down upon, and easily thrown away.

The car speeds off, and the city starts to wake up around us as the night wears on. Music from a few blocks over gets a bit louder until I can feel the bass thumping against my back as I lean into a light pole. The other walkers say I’m committed when I bring a new girl into the fold. But I never cared much for that word. Being committed is an overcorrection from learning a lesson the hard way, and Memory was my best teacher.

“You’ll need a new name. How do you feel about Angellica? With two l’s, since you sorta have that angelic look about you. The johns will eat it up.”

The Monte Carlo pulls back around, and the driver waves me over. “I’ll be right back, he’s a regular.”

“Hey, baby,” I say with honeyed words. “It’s been a few days, I’ve been missing you.” I drag my finger back and forth across his forearm the way I know he likes. Squatting in my heels is second nature, and I glance back at Angellica to make sure she’s watching how it’s done. From this angle, my customer feels a power shift; he’s above me and can look down at my intentional whimsy. This is how I play the game, and how I play him.

“Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll meet you at our spot. I’m gonna finish talking with my new girl.” I lean in and kiss him on the cheek; his skin is smooth and smells like deep notes of jasmine and sandalwood.

“You’re not going with him? Won’t he go pick someone else up?” Angellica has so many questions, she might blow my cover before she blows hers.

I stick my gum to the concrete wall behind me and fish out a new piece to chew. Keeping my mouth busy keeps the nerves at bay, and even after three years of hiding who I really am, I get antsy when I have free time to think. Night shift, where today is yesterday, and tomorrow doesn’t matter.

“Oh, he’ll wait. You’ll find some to be very patient.”

It’s a warm summer night, but Angellica’s teeth chatter a bit. I rub her arm and pull her into a side hug, and we start walking. A little mannerism Memory taught me, and I follow it up with a personal confession. Connection creates trust, and I need hers.

“It’s okay to be scared, but you can’t let them see it. They see you waver, and they’ll take more than you’re willing to give. Hey, I know it feels off doing this with these dirtbags, but it’s part of the gig. I threw up the first time a guy touched me, all over my outfit. It gets easier. But you have to pull at least one john a night, otherwise the customers and the other walkers will think something is up.”

Angellica is too put-together. I run my fingers through her hair and give it a good shake. I slide one sleeve down her shoulder. She grabs my arm and inspects my face.

“When did you get that?”

I turn my head away so she can’t look me in the eye while she examines the fading bruises on my neck.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Did you tell anyone? Does Ronnie know?”

I give her a knowing look—no need to tell anyone anything around here.

#

Prone position: The dark haze pulled back from the night, and you all turned frail, intimidated by daybreak. You counted your pull. If another walker got robbed of her pay, you’d all chip in to make sure she didn’t go home empty-handed. Memory liked to show up last, working and walking until call time. But she’d never been so late. You all agreed to scan the area before heading home. What was her hair color? What was she wearing? You can’t recall. It was your literal job to know these things, and even still, you became one of the walkers so quickly that it was only natural for you to stop noticing. But there, past the underpass, someone lay out in a horizontal position, face down—a missing shoe and chipped nail polish. No, you didn’t know if it was her color or not, because you’d only ever seen her in shoes. Memory mentioned that being face down provides access to the spine and helps increase oxygenation. Because once in a while, the johns didn’t want to look at you. They didn’t want to see who they were doing. Not worth remembering your faces anyway.

#

“If one bruise is enough to scare you, then this ain’t the circuit for you. We have work to do out here, and sometimes these are the side effects. You got it?” I don’t watch my tone. I’m ugly to Angellica. Maybe I want to scare her. Maybe I want to forget what I know. Maybe I want to be forgotten, too. Maybe it’s easier if I stop trying to put a name to a walker I only ever knew as someone else.

“But, you’ve been out here for three years. How many times has something like this happened?” This is Lily asking, not her new persona, Angellica. Lily is still new enough to think I matter out here. That I’m worth reporting my sins and abusers to someone who might make a difference. But right now we are those people, so no sense in creating extra paperwork.

I know what Lily will say next. It’s not your fault. You can’t save them all. You’re punishing yourself for not remembering a third thing.

The regular flashes his lights, and I back away from her.

“I’ll be back in ten minutes tops. If I’m not, get Cherry. Do. Not. Get. Ronnie.”

Angellica looks past my shoulder to the Monte Carlo as I climb in, and I see her count the details. The other walkers are attentive, assessing the minutiae, but they’re discreet and hide their findings through whispered hugs exchanged with their co-walkers.

#

Lateral Recumbent position: To the side, that’s what lateral meant. You pulled her onto her side, hoping. But her eyes were wide and her breath was shallow, you remembered that much. Training kicked in, and you slapped her face to get her to come to attention. You might have begged. You might have said, No, no, no, over and over again. Her hair was soft on your lap, and you stroked her head like she did to yours once, hoping a tender touch would revive Memory. Once I was like you. She smiled. Who smiles with a collapsed occipital bone? Who? Who? And you broke the most important rule Memory ever gave you. “Ronnie!” You screamed it.

#

The regular smiles and opens my car door. I slide in, keeping my knees together and angling them towards the john. I’ve learned that selling yourself is all about the angles.

“Let’s drive,” I say as I place my hand at the nape of his neck.

He shifts the car and pulls slowly around the block past a busy bar with a line out the door. The stark difference in lives just one block away is whiplash to my psyche.

“How was your day, baby?” I ask him. It’s all part of the game. I pretend to care, and he pretends my deference matters.

“I’m here now, so it couldn’t be any better. Can we get in the back this time? I’ll pay extra.” There’s a sparkle in his eye—cliche bullshit. Men don’t sparkle, and neither do their eyes. They smolder and set fire. They possess sight alignment and treat the walker’s circuit like a hot range, where they shoot, unload, and go home to their loving families.

Sometimes I ruminate on what I know and what Memory taught me. The details get mixed up in my sight, and I forget the aim. She said, Don’t let them get you on your back.

“Yeah, baby. We can get in the back. Money first.”

He sets the cash on the dashboard and gets out of the car, letting me out of the passenger side. A couple walks by us, looking me up and down. They don’t look at my date. They don’t see my eye color or the way I smile. They look and keep walking. Heat burns my throat. We aren’t worth anything to them. We remain unseen. Memory beat this into my head. I’ll have to tell Angellica this rule, too, if she hasn’t picked up on it already. We lost four walkers in the past six months, and we’re no closer to identifying who they were outside of this circuit. No family has come forward. No one claims them. Forgotten.

I embrace my duty as he climbs over me, tilting my chin back. The blood rushes to my head. There are holes in the cold leather poking me in my shoulder, and I close my eyes so tightly, begging the phosphenes to develop into a picture of Memory. All I get is a pinch to my side from my date.

“Hey, I’m not paying you to daydream about someone else. My eyes are up here, sweetheart.”

Memory said eye contact matters, but I’m not sure anything does out here anymore. Pain screams from the places I didn’t know could ache in this way. I flinch and squirm and forget where I am. A strong hand pins my left shoulder down, and the other covers my mouth; my shouting is garbled. The couple from earlier walks back from the other direction past the car. They laugh, and she leans into him, and something like Morse code blinks out from my eyes, begging her to look through the window, and now she does, she’s looking and turning up her mouth at me in disgust. Memory said eye contact matters, I remember now.

#

Trendelenburg position: Ronnie shouted under his breath. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He spoke words with no rhyme or reason into his chest for backup. We got a walker down. Get me a bus. Now, dammit. There was a lump on Memory’s forehead, bigger than an egg, but smaller than a baseball. You didn’t know why, but you wanted to kiss it better for her. Breathing faded in and out for her and for you, and it’s because you were the same—nameless and left to die slowly and then all at once. And you tried so damn hard to drum up what Memory had said about low blood pressure and intracranial pressure, but you’d only ever taken First Aid/CPR mandated classes in the academy. Was it head up, feet down? Or head down, feet up? It didn’t matter because what was her name? What was it? Devon. Crystal. Heaven. No, those were fake. You really looked at her as they strapped her to the stretcher and tilted her head lower than her feet. But no one else saw the lump. No one else saw. And you remember what Memory said, Contraindications of Trendelenburg will put pressure on the brain. Who was she? And how did she know so much about anatomical positions? No one else saw. But you did.

#

A halo of light rips through the glass, and Angellica, true to her fake name, hits the window, shattering the glass like an angel sent to save. The john curses and pulls out, giving me time to scoot back to Lithotomy. Angellica yanks at my shoulders, moving me inches at a time. She’s not strong enough to pull me while the john has me pinned.

Out here, we’re family.

Memory’s words jolt me to Fowler, but the regular, he fights back.

“I’m not done yet. I paid!” He tugs at my feet, and my shoe comes off, exposing my polish. Hot pink.

“You don’t have to do this.” I kick and arch my body back, and he takes it as an opportunity to death roll me like an alligator, hoping to drown his prey. I am prone as I breathe into the carved-out hole in the leather. The polyester foam chokes what little air I manage to breathe in.

“Let her go, you fucking psycho!” Angellica shouts, and now I hear Cherry and Raven, and the other blurry voices making a ruckus.

Family. We’re family.

“I see your shitty tattoo,” Angellica growls as she fights over my body, and I work to turn back to lateral recumbent. She’s climbing into the car, her knees at my shoulders, protecting me. She’s got both thumbs pressed into the john’s eyes, and he’s tearing at her wrists. Lights dance through the car, and they pull me back to Memory and the night of the car disco. It hurts knowing that this is what she saw last.

I withdraw my leg and kick him in the groin.

“You bitches!” He screams out, lashing his hands out to pull at Angellica’s hair.

“I see your broken taillight.” Angellica cries and throws an elbow at his nose. A vicious crack fills the car.

There’s no semblance of Lily left; this rescue mission is all Angellica, as she is letting the john know someone will not forget that he was here, and so were we. He breaks from her hold, and now my family has pulled me from the car into the Trendelenburg. My head hits the sidewalk, and my feet are kicking like I’m treading water, scaring the fish away. The panic to survive makes me committed. Blood rushes to my head right as my rescuer shouts, “And I see your shitty reattached bumper!”

#

Supine position: On your back. That’s where they wanted you. It’s where they got her. You remember now what she said about the supine position. How, sometimes, it allows access to the thoracic cavity, to one’s heart. Typically, this was the position in which autopsies began. You might have said Yes, that’s her, when you identified her body. You made a promise to her and to your supervisor, Ronnie, to take over her circuit. To run the undercover operation to catch the guy who did this to your friend. To your family. To a fellow walker. An impression of Memory pulled at the loose tendrils of your hair, tucking them into the collar of your faux fur coat for safekeeping. A tickling at the back of your neck, where the fancy part of your brain should have worked harder to know more about this woman who wasn’t protected the same way you were. Memory warned you about the name-calling. Dirty. Whores. Prostitutes. Sex sells, and people are mad that we’ve found a way to make them pay for it. Who was she? How could you have forgotten? Wait, what was your name? Come on. Sometimes all you have left of her is the forgetting because who wants to exist in the grief. But what was your name? And you said, You’ll only forget it.