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Here in this building I have the dent in the locker where I broke my wrist after hearing a rape joke, dropped as casually as pocket lint.

A ceiling tile still knocked askew two years after I took a vicious kick at thin air and my shoe flew off. No one has noticed it.

The residually sticky spot on the wall outside the science classrooms where the anatomy classes hang their posters with double-sided tape every year, the obligatory genitalia comically large. Nothing hangs there now but a thread of my own hair, torn out.

No one sees me do these things. Until today.

Now there is a new place, a place where a boy came at my face with his hands, his mouth open, tongue out. A place where he fell, pale-faced. A place where his tears pooled afterward. It is a place where I did not mean to, but it happened.

I use my markers as I go from place to place. Seeing evidence of my small rebellions, spots where my wrath was allowed to vent and has impacted the world around me, no longer safely encapsulated inside. My life is made of these tiny maps, my paths always steady as I move inside a constricted area, the only one I should ever be allowed to know.

My violence is everywhere here.

And I like it.

9. PEEKAY

If I were to uncoil my trumpet, I’d have four and a half feet of brass pipe. This fact was on repeat in my head at last night’s football game, because I was seriously considering dismantling my instrument so that I could wrap it around Branley’s swan-white neck and strangle her. I also considered just sticking all four feet into the ground right when her squad threw her up in the air so that when she came down she’d be impaled on it.

I played out both scenarios in my head, picturing the cheerleaders screeching as I choked their poster child, the other bandies trying to stop me. Maybe one of the trombone players would hook me with their slide. I imagined the stunned silence that would emanate from the bleachers after the homecoming queen had a trumpet bell explode from her chest when she came down from a toss, her perfect smile slipping into confusion, Adam running from the sidelines, his football spikes clicking against the track. He’d hold her while she died and maybe one of the other trumpet players would do a riff on “Taps.”

And then I spotted her little sister in the stands, two blond pigtails poking from either side of her head, a popcorn kernel stuck on her chin as she cheered along with Branley, who she probably thinks is perfect. I reminded myself there’s a Saint Bernard with big woeful eyes who loves Branley, so of course I did none of those things. Instead, I wallowed in my rage and missed a quarter turn on the thirty-yard line that threw off the entire trumpet section during the halftime show, so that’s karma for you.

Anger makes you tired, but guilt keeps you from falling asleep. So I hit my alarm twice this morning, even though it’s Saturday and my SYE is as good as a class and I need to get my ass out of bed.

I’m still the first one at the shelter, and there’s a dump.

It’s a mutt, part retriever (maybe), part shepherd (maybe). Definitely all pain and anger. Rhonda told me this has been happening more lately with the shitty economy. People can’t afford their pets but they can’t pay the surrender fee either, so they tie their dog to the fence at night and drive away.

Once someone didn’t even cough up the money for a chain, instead just chucking the poor dog in the trash. Rhonda found that one. She had to climb into the empty Dumpster while Alex and I leaned over the side standing on chairs, Rhonda’s arms wobbling as she tried to get the terrified dog to us and we tried to get him over the edge without losing our balance.

But today is something new. Someone apparently tossed this dog over the fence, and I’m guessing he didn’t land right because he’s holding one paw up in the air and showing teeth at me as I twirl the combination lock on the gate. His fur has a fine coating of early November frost, which can’t feel good.

“It’s okay,” I say quietly. “I’m here now.”

He doesn’t seem convinced that everything is okay, and when I get a closer look at him, I understand why. Someone really did not give a shit about this dog. One of his eyes is crusted completely shut, and both his ears are sprouting growths.

“Not a lot of love, huh, buddy?” I say, and he lunges at me through the fence, teeth clicking against the wire. The wave of stench that follows him makes me back off more than the snarl. I’m sitting on the concrete step with my hand over my nose when Alex pulls up.

“What?” she asks as she gets out, using one word to encompass me, the dog, and the locked door.

“Rhonda’s not here yet,” I say through the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “Somebody dumped this guy. I think they threw him over the fence. He’s got a broken leg and smells something awful.”

Alex walks toward the fence and he goes for her.

“You might want to leave him alone,” I say. “Unless you think you can punch him in the dick through the fence.”

The words pop out before I realize it, but Alex doesn’t seem to care. She digs into her pockets and pulls out a set of keys. “Rhonda gave me these last week,” she explains. “She said we’re familiar enough with the morning routine to handle it alone. She’ll come at open hours.”

“Fair enough,” I say, accepting the duplicate that Alex hands me. We walk into the front office. My heart dips a little every time. There’s a single desk with a phone, a computer someone gave us when they upgraded, and a line of metal folding chairs the church donated a few years ago. That’s the sum of our only weapons in the battle to help unwanted animals across three counties find homes—and the phone is a rotary phone. Sometimes I’m really glad that the door separating the office and the kennels is solid and heavy as hell. I don’t want them to see how hopeless it all is.

Alex flips the lock behind her and we glance at each other in the oddly private space of a public area before the lights are turned on.

“I would never punch a dog in the dick,” she says.

I bust out laughing. She’s so intense, her mouth in the firmest, flattest line I’ve ever seen, serious as my dad on Easter morning.

I’ve never heard her say anything normal. Two months of working with Alex Craft and I’ve learned that she doesn’t say “Huh?” She says, “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” Alex says, “Were you able to scoop the litter pans this morning?” Not, “Did you get the cat shit?”