I lie in my dorm bed, staring at the window fan as it spins. Every night the blades hum and creak until a child cries out—Mommy! It rises, ripples, then repeats. I shed my blanket, sit on edge. It’s only the fan. Isn’t it?

I slip on a jacket and head down the hall, no lip gloss on, my long hair a mess. Still in my pajamas, I light a cigarette and walk across campus. The restaurants, bars, and liquor lure me to the strip. I dig through my pockets in search of money for vodka, rum, any 100-proof drink. My fingers find my key and a pack with one last cancer stick, not enough cash to feed my bad habits. Maybe it’s time to quit?

I linger at a stop sign and blow smoke rings with my final drag—perfect circles, round and round. As a guy heads toward me, I wander closer, when any other woman at night would cross the street. He passes by. I never draw danger like the unlucky. Lucky me?

The LED charms on my Crocs light up with my steps, as if sending an SOS. A moth—its wings marked with eyespots resembling drops of ink—lands on my pants dotted with SpongeBob prints. When I move on, its wings flutter over my lights, its eyespots blink, in a Morse I can’t decode. It circles me, as though it has a message to relay. I shoo it away.

I reach the brick building. I’ll be there tomorrow morning, for an appointment that will last until evening. My boyfriend will take me, he’s offered to pay, even though we split half on our dates. But he’ll wait in the car despite being allowed in. Or maybe he’ll go to get it washed, complaining of stains I won’t see.

In the brick building, I’ll fill out forms, the date of my last menstruation, my religious affiliation, questions asking me, Are you sure? I’ll learn about the procedure through a video, doctor, nurse reassuring me, Of course, you’re sure. I’ll change into scrubs, inhale the fumes of rubbing alcohol, listen to the clock’s tick-tock, asking myself, Are you sure?

Eventually, I’ll leave.

A child will emerge from an alley as dark as a cocoon, where the air will carry a baby mobile’s tune. She’ll toddle over in a baptismal dress stitched with lace, with a satin bow wrapped around her waist. She’ll tap her toes in leather Mary Janes and say, Mommy! Her voice will ripple like the cries that rise every night on repeat.

I’ll recognize her and freeze.

She’ll glance at my boyfriend’s car, pristine from its cleaning. Where’s Daddy?

I’ll lift her up, run my fingers through her hair, so she won’t see him sleeping there. I’m so sorry.

She’ll blink at me, her eyes inked like the eyespots of the moth from tonight. She’ll decode her Morse and say, It’s okay. Don’t cry.

I’ll hug her in disbelief and grief, over the message of forgiveness she’ll have given me. I’ll tire my arms before I set her down. Behind the brick building, behind the dumpster, she’ll skip around. A circle of children, in their Sunday best, will manifest and become her friends. Through the parking loop, a bus will arrive. She’ll climb aboard and wave goodbye.

I’ll whisper, Sleep tight.

Neon signs and music beckon, so I leave and head toward a club, where a guy steps out to smoke. In a plain tee and ripped jeans, he gives off vibes of a guy a girl should walk away from, especially in the middle of the night, all alone. But I don’t. I stop at a streetlamp that casts a spotlight. I light my last cigarette, licking the tingle of menthol on my lips. Should I hit him up for a drink? Maybe I’ll get lucky? Or maybe I should quit?

I take a final drag and blow my smoke rings, round and round. They drift apart, dissolve, and open—the path to forgiveness is a circle that must be broken.