She threw her overnight bag on the floor in haste and sprinted to the closet: ripping tshirts off hangers and scooping up piles of worn black jeans. A friend had just now informed Bailey that a raid on her house was scheduled at dawn. Bailey had just driven $400,000 cash in a packing box along with 30 kgs of weed, across the border for safekeeping in her house. There were only a few hours left before she was dead meat. A sick anxiety gripped her heart like a tight chain. It was hard to take normal, steady breaths. For a moment she weighed up her options. If she took the money and drugs, she risked getting caught redhanded. If she left them behind, all the hard work would have been for naught. As a compromise, Bailey decided to take the cash but left the drugs sealed up in a wall. Already she was preparing a speech for any cop that might want to pull her car over. “Just coming back home from visiting a friend on the other end of town. Had coffee, no alcohol. Box contains cds and videotapes for sale.” The trick was to drive leisurely – not gripping the wheel with tense hands, not being too focused, just chilling and relaxing. At this point there was no concrete plan, other than driving as far as possible into the mexican plains until Cancun showed up. With some American dinero she would check into a beach resort and lie low until it felt safe to venture out again. From there maybe Bailey could rent an apartment and hide out in Mexico.

The biggest job had gone through without a hitch – but she’d been sweating bullets the whole way, internalising a panic attack under a surface of cool. Now pulling out of the driveway, she wondered if she’d get out before a 40 year prison sentence came her way. This was the tailend of a journey that had been exhilarating, terrifying, and profitable: making a run for it and coasting off a wad of money that could last into retirement if she played her cards right. The night sky was starry and a crescent moon lay in a corner. It was deserted on the two-lane highway that she cruised down; clearly everyone was asleep or someplace more exciting. Only a couple hours to go until freedom arrived. Bailey kept her posture straight, sitting like a proper lady – not wanting to look like an outlaw dealer slouched at the seat. In the tinny pontiac firebird that she drove the radio was on at a low volume, some Mexican talk show channel. It was important to have some ambient sound playing to distract her from paranoid thoughts.

All of a sudden Bailey was blinded by flashes of blue and red, as if out of nowhere. A cop car had just pulled out behind her and knowing her precarious luck, the siren was sounding. Fuck goddamnit. She had a feeling it could happen, and now it was very much happening. In the minute she had while pulling over for the policeman, she dug a fingernail into her palm to steady herself. Relax, look normal.. boring as batshit. Pleasant.

“Good evening,” the policeman said in Spanish, peering into her car with a curious expression. His posture communicated authority, but not outright suspicion. “Are you aware that your broken side mirror on the left is dangerous, and as a consequence, your car is considered unroadworthy?”

Bailey held back a shudder and blinked as if he’d just announced that Bigfoot had been sighted.

“It is?” she laughed giddily. “I’ve been so distracted driving my pregnant girlfriend to the hospital that I didn’t notice,” she admitted with a fabricated honesty that surprised even herself. “Her husband’s working on a minesite and we didn’t expect the kid to be premature.” The story sailed out of her mouth as if she’d been rehearsing the lines all her life for this moment. Later on she would award herself an oscar, but for now, she needed to wrap up the inspection with a convincing, reasonable promise. The guy wasn’t an asshole, and Bailey really was going to fix the mirror for his sake.. she just needed to skip town, first.

“As soon as I get back home i’ll google the car repair shops,” she delivered with worried eyes and earnest grimace. “And get it fixed at the earliest appointment possible. I’m really sorry.”

The Mexican policeman gave her a stern but generous warning – in writing – then returned to his car to turn off the flashing lights. A wave of relief gushed over Bailey’s shoulders, but she was resolved to drive as if nothing major had happened. That her 400 grand in cash had not in fact been confiscated, and she was not actually on the way to an overnight stint in the slammer, where she would naturally be exposed as a drug dealer up for several big charges and nasty sentences. When five minutes had passed and the cop car had disappeared out of sight, she kissed her steering wheel and praised the Lord quietly in her heart. For this easy escape, she would donate to charity – those impoverished bastards camping out on the border with no real houses to live in.

No more shady work and supporting the cartels. It was time for a new lease on life, to rebuild karma in return for profiting from an amoral, violent business. Several hours passed; the drive was becoming monotonous yet was soothing in a way, too. A dull journey was just what Bailey needed especially since her anxiety medication had run out. Of late the paranoia had become crippling, a constant unhappiness clouding her mind. When a motel came into view she didn’t even have to think twice. The thought of bright morning sunshine on the horizon and gradual fatigue that had set in made the decision easy. A frenzied run from her house with possessions spilling out of her carrybag, and a dreaded pullover by police had drained her physically and emotionally. For sanity’s sake a good rest was the right thing to do, and from there she could think about a possible hideout. Already she knew a beach resort appealed to her, drowned out by the hoorahs of spring breakers and drunken carousement from every direction. The cash, despite being sourced through unsavoury avenues, was rightfully hers, she told herself. She’d put in the time and energy to do a risky job, and it was her life that she’d risked for the gain. No guilt in sitting on a deckchair, poolside with a good book. For as long as she needed to. But that could be planned out properly later.

Right now all that was planned was checking into a room, closing the drapes and hopping under the covers with her zipup and jeans still on. Exhaustion was a hindrance – and Bailey was getting close to the point where she’d start cursing out of grumpiness. It was always like that for her after several all-nighters – a crash of nonfunctioning, dead and fried brain, then passing out. She barely noticed the counter clerk handing her a key and crawling into the motel bed. Sleep arrived without a further thought. Dreams. Christmas with her family back home in America, buying a new car.. scenes of freedom and carefree days. It was 3am the next morning when she blinked up at the dark motel ceiling. For a second she thought she’d gone blind from the drugs she’d taken earlier, but then realised that it was just night. A still night. The threadbare pillow beneath her head felt lumpy, and Bailey missed her old room and her Ikea bed. If she allowed herself to be negative she could probably find something depressing about her surroundings, but she decided to think of it as cool, in a gritty and lonesome way. Paradise lay ahead of her, maybe in Cancun. It didn’t particularly matter what the next location would be, as long as she could rent a secure apartment to stash her money until it was laundered and converted into electronic funds. When daylight arrived and normal traffic hours resumed, she would start thinking of herself as college aged spring breaker and hopefully disappear under the radar without any unwanted attention.

And Bailey at 29 could easily pass for a 20 year old student with her freckles and nerdish bangs. College life had been great for her, hanging out with pasty kids and playing with motherboards on mundane evenings. She subscribed to Wired magazine, partied at the computer on irc with beers on the desk. Reliving those times was a good way keep herself going. A positive attitude always worked in her favour, since normal, well-adjusted people had more chance of getting away with, well, anything. Most importantly, Bailey wanted to think of herself as a “family woman”, the kind of person who was in the process of doing innocent things like moving furniture for her parents. Of course, she hadn’t been as “family” as she wanted this year – moving to Mexico without a return address for even her mother and father, then functioning as a loner during this unexplained ditch, almost like an evacuation. An explanation would have been offensive – that she valued drugs in her life more than people, and she wanted to make good money without vying for promotions in a conventional office where politics were unavoidable. And never mind the glass ceiling. There were just as many politics with her suppliers and buyers as a dealer, but somehow being able to choose her work hours and having the ability to pick whichever jobs she wanted gave her a sense of control, freedom.

By now her family probably thought of her as missing, or even dead. But in her heart she remembered them and still loved them. It was just that Bailey had gone down a solitary path to fulfil her own wants and needs. Looking at her watch, it was still a few hours until the normal morning work commutes began. That was a good time to head off – blending in with mundane weekday duties. A tv sat in front of her, mute and switched off, but she was afraid that some random program would trigger her paranoia again. Time to kill, yet nothing to do. A diary, yes, that was what she needed. Bailey fished out a mostly unused journal from her carrybag of dark clothes – she would make a mental note to buy some festive holiday clothes soon – and picked up the motel pen. For a moment she wondered how detailed she should make the entry. It wouldn’t do to divulge incriminating activities but at the same time Bailey desperately needed an outlet for her recent internal turmoil. /Ah, fuck it/, she thought. /I’ll write everything out in gory detail, and put the thing under the floor mat in the car after so no one will find it. The box of cash in my trunk is more of a concern than this./ Soon the words were flying across the pages. Her messy script betrayed her frayed state of mind, but no one else would ever read it, only herself. All of Bailey’s plans, depressions and experiences swept out like a dam bursting.

It was a relief to admit that she’d actually been incredibly lonely this whole time in Mexico, when she’d been telling herself that it was fine to have no friends and little human contact, all in the name of independence and adventure. Thinking back on the past, she decided that she still didn’t regret leaving America. Because how could she ever know without seeing for herself? Everything was going to be good again when she got her life back on track – finding somewhere to settle, preferably in the USA, and awkwardly reuniting with Mom, Dad and her little sister. Just had to wait out this darkness and make things right again. After taking what seemed like an endless shower, Bailey reread her journal. Writing it out was like therapy, something she should have done sooner. All those insights and ephiphanies had come only after serious reflection. An issue that still played on her mind, of course, was getting high again. Part of herself hated the fact that a clean break was not a black and white process, but Bailey never saw herself as an addict, never crossing that line. Being completely straight edge seemed bland and unnecessary, with a little common sense and self control. Plenty of people lacked those things, but they were the unmentionab les to be avoided. They were the desperados who bought on credit and racked up debts, mugged and stole to feed their uncontrollable demons. She’d always been strict about her contact list.

Everyone had one strike before being cut out. No wonder there were hardly any humans in her life, except the robotic, reliable ghouls she dealt with briefly on jobs. As for what she did for euphoric highs – it ranged from occasional ecstasy rolls mixed with Tina, or crystal, smoked from a pipe, sometimes with a line of the same stuff snorted as a chaser. A few Adderall popped for good measure – nothing spiritual, but still good filler. Stimulants coloured Bailey’s life – weed she sold but never smoked. Cocaine was okay. If she rubbed it on her gums it gave her a pep like an energy drink. These benders were not the majority of her weekdays, but if they were sometimes – usually on her own – it was deliberate.

Everything worked out, because no one could ever tell when she was high off her head at the local convenience store. Appearing normal was a skill, or maybe just a stroke of luck. A personal philosophy – never to talk or involve anyone with her secret enjoyment of substance. Inwardly Bailey called it “normal entertainment”.. no different to putting on a dvd and kicking back, or having a beer at home. God, she was exhausted from all this thinking. Always being in the company of her own thoughts was getting too much. Autopilot sounded like a great idea now – wait until 8am, check out, drive off. Head to Cancun. Rest again, regroup, and continue planning as needed.

When she finally set off she stopped at a convenience store to pick up some No-Doze – caffeine pills in case a phase of sleepiness knocked on her door. There had only been one skirt packed in her carrybag, which she’d worn in an effort to look like she was on vacation. The clerk behind the counter at 7-eleven was a brown boy wearing a monotone expression. It was nice getting 2 minutes of airconditioned atmosphere. Outside, it was warm, hot even. Bailey shook her long chestnut hair off her shoulders. She was used to being the odd white girl in Mexico. But she’d picked up a tan that blended in with her freckles from reading out in the sun in a tank top and underpants. That was back when she had a home, a backyard. Now she was on the run and starting from scratch. All of a sudden a delayed comedown arrived, and a shit feeling glowered in the back of her brain. It was like a temporary death of motivation and enthusiasm for the future. Wanting to give up and throw in the towel. Yet there was no rest stop for now, the only way out was to plow forward.