The fifth time that February Jones says, "I'll do anything," she's outside of Zif's house first thing in the morning, sitting on the ground with her back against one wheel of Zif's truck, shivering.
"Get back on your bike and go," Zif says curtly.
"She's empty," February says, not moving. "Ran the tank dry halfway here, had to push her the rest of the way."
(Here's the truth: there are a lot of people in the world whose business could or should or does fall foul of algorithmic snake oil criminal activity autodetection. It's not the end of the world. If February had started out her fledgeling career in extracorporate skulduggery with the right friends or advice or any clue what she was doing, she wouldn't be in trouble, or worst case she'd be back out by now.
(You could call this an object lesson, if you were extremely charitable.)
Zif unlocks her truck.
"You say anything like you think it's the Starbucks secret menu," she says. "Pick what you want, even the things not on offer unless you're an asshole, even the things usually out of bounds. Like you think it's a transaction." She opens the truck door, and looks down at February, cold and pitiless. "Anything goes further than you think."
February looks back at her through black-dyed fringe. "And here you are," she says, all look-how-frail-and-pretty-I-am, "pulling faces at me and not taking me up on it," so Zif leans her elbow on the open door.
"Do you think that'll work here?" she says, lip curling. "If you're used to the hot schoolgirl naïf routine getting whatever you want, maybe try hanging out with more people than dudes' midlife crises," slides in and slams the door, starts the engine.
February struggles to her feet and bangs on the window, so Zif rolls it down.
"Gettin' mixed messages," February says, with a flash of smouldering temper. "Sounds like you're advising me to go throw myself at a guy," and Zif gives her a smile of pure poison.
"Maybe," she says. "Because you take his help in exchange for anything, and he'll happily stick it in your daddy issues. But you offer anything to me and I'll take everything. You won't owe me; I'll own you. Anything goes further than you think. It lasts longer than you think. It hurts worse than you think. Maybe I think some guy is more your speed, February Jones," and she rolls the window back up and drives away.
After work, Zif drives home the leisurely way, via a beer with the good old boys at the bar; gets home with the stars coming out.
February's huddled on the step.
"You're gonna get hypothermia," Zif calls, locking the truck up.
February waits until she gets up close, and clutches shaking fingers onto the hem of her fleece. "I'm not offering anything to some guy," she says. "Not offering any thing. I'm — you know what I learned from Daddy?"
Zif waits.
"To only feel loved when someone makes me feel disgusting." Her teeth chatter, and she ducks her head as if to hide it. "I'll do," she says, and shudders, "everything."
Zif unlocks her back door. "Yeah," she says, ruminatively, hand on the handle. "You will," and stops February with a hand on top of her shoulder when she starts to rise. "Down there's fine," she says, opening the door and motioning her through it, and watches February crawl, shivering, into the house.
