Rural Minnesota     Eight years ago   I creep across the parking lot of the aging gas station, eyes adjusting quickly to the darkness. We go out only when it’s dark because it’s easier to hide. I don’t mind anymore. I’d rather hide now, rather tuck away the parts of myself I have left. I’m almost to the door, beckoned by the glow of fluorescent light, the promise of air- conditioning. But a low whistle makes me turn back—he’s watching, always watching. I shiver as I push the door open, stepping into soft music and crisp air, like entering another world. “Evening,” the attendant calls from behind the red counter.   The greeting jolts me, and I turn quickly down an aisle, remembering my warning: Don’t take too long. I rub my tender wrist—proof of my last mistake—then absently pull down the sleeve of my ratty flannel. I cross to the back corner, then walk the perimeter, staring intently into each cooler as if deciding which soft drink to purchase. In my peripheral vision, though, I’m scanning, checking, as I’ve been taught. Suddenly the bathroom door creaks open behind me. A giggling toddler bounds out, followed by a frazzled-looking…