I woke up floating down the river face up with half of the blanket having unraveled around me. I have no idea how I survived. I eventually got my arm free and did my best to steer myself toward the shore. I failed miserably, but luckily someone spotted me and it wasn’t long before I was loaded onto a police boat. Weeks of intensive physical therapy, interviews with various law enforcement agencies, and psychiatric evaluation followed.

There wasn’t a number for Jenny at the Circle K or the Tim Hortons. The number I had called that day was traced to a prepaid phone that had last pinged a cell tower two states away more than three months before I was found. The owner had paid cash and there were no cameras in the store where it had been purchased. Despite my descriptions of Candice, Jenny, and Danielle, the police couldn’t turn up any indication that any of them had ever lived in the city.

It’s been almost a year since then and I am still rolling around in a wheelchair. I mean, I guess my story isn’t exactly the typical result or anything, but let it be an example.

No matter how curious you are, don’t call the number in the bathroom stall.