Her cop gives her another look, forehead creasing. “Are you sure you know this woman?”

“Yes,” I say, answering for her. “Her name is Samantha Boyd and I’m sure whatever happened is simply a misunderstanding.”

“That’s not the name she gave the arresting officer.”

“What do you mean?”

The cop coughs while shuffling through paperwork.

“Says here that her name’s Tina Stone.”

I look to Sam. The late hour has made her cheeks puffy and red. Her eyeliner is smudged in spots—streaks of blackness that bleed into the circles beneath her eyes.

“Is this true?”

“Yeah,” she says with a shrug. “I changed my name a while back.”

“So your name is really Tina Stone?”

“Now it is. Legally. You know, just because.”

I do know. I thought about doing the same thing a year after Pine Cottage, for the same reasons Sam has no need to articulate. Because I was tired of strangers vaguely recognizing it when I was introduced to them. Because I hated the way their features froze, if only for a second, when their memories clicked. Because it made me sick knowing my name and His will forever be associated.

Coop ultimately talked me out of it. He said I should hold onto my name as a stubborn point of pride. Changing it wouldn’t separate the name Quincy Carpenter from the horrors of Pine Cottage. Keeping it could, if I moved on and made something of myself. Something beyond being the lucky one who lived when so many others had not.

“Now that we’ve got the name thing cleared up,” Jeff says, “can someone tell me what she’s been accused of?”

“Are you her attorney?” the cop asks.

Jeff sighs. “I guess.”

“Miss Stone,” the cop says, “faces charges of third-degree assault and resisting arrest.”

The details come in pieces, from both Sam and the booking officer. Jeff, calm and collected, asks the questions. I struggle to keep up, head pivoting between the three of them, my brain buzzing from lack of sleep. From what I’m able to gather, Sam, now also known as Tina Stone, went to a bar on the Upper West Side after leaving my apartment. After a few drinks, she went outside for a smoke, encountering a husband and wife in mid-argument. It was heated, according to Sam. Things got physical. When the man shoved the woman, Sam stepped in.

“I was breaking up a fight,” she tells us.

“You attacked him,” the cop counters.

Both agree on one thing—that Sam ultimately punched the man. He called the police while Sam asked the woman if she was okay, if fights like this were a regular thing, if the man had ever hit her. When a pair of cops arrived, Sam bolted across Central Park West, vanishing into the park itself.

The cops followed, caught up, brought out the cuffs. That’s when Sam resisted.

“They were arresting me for no goddamn reason,” she says.

“You hit a man,” the cop says.

She sniffs. “I was trying to help. He looked like he was about to beat the shit out of that woman. He probably would have, too, if I hadn’t done something about it.”

Frustrated by the injustice of it all—Sam’s words, not mine—she took a swing at one of the cops, knocking off his hat and prompting her arrest.

“It was only his hat, for God’s sake,” she mutters in conclusion. “It’s not like I hurt him or anything.”

Jeff pulls the booking officer aside. They confer by the wall, their voices low but still loud enough for me to hear. I stand next to Sam, my hand on her shoulder, fingers digging into the soft leather of her jacket. She doesn’t bother trying to listen in. She simply stares straight ahead, grinding her teeth.

“This all sounds to me like a big misunderstanding,” Jeff tells the cop.

“Not to me,” the cop replies.

“It’s clear she shouldn’t have done what she did. But she was trying to help that woman and emotions were high and she got a little wild.”

“You’re saying the charges should be dropped?”

The booking officer looks our way. I give him a smile, hoping it will somehow persuade him. As if seeing perky, harmless me at Sam’s side will tip the scales in her favor.

“I’m saying she shouldn’t have been charged in the first place,” Jeff says. “If you knew what she’s been through, you’d understand why she acted that way.”

The cop’s face is a blank. “Then tell me what happened to her.”

Jeff whispers something to him that I can’t fully make out. I catch only random words. One of them is “Nightlight.” Another is “murders.” The booking officer turns to look at Sam again. This time, his eyes contain a potent mix of curiosity and pity. I’ve seen that look a thousand times before. It’s the look of someone realizing he’s facing a Final Girl.

He whispers something to Jeff. Jeff whispers back. This continues a few more seconds until they shake hands and Jeff walks briskly toward us.

“Grab your things,” he tells Sam. “You’re free to go.”

Outside, the three of us idle in the courtyard just beyond the precinct’s glass front wall, the Irish desk sergeant watching us from his post. A chilly breeze courses through the park, nipping at my ears and nose. I was in too much of a hurry when we left to think of bringing a sweater and now hug myself for warmth.