Everyone thinks they’re the one: the one that won’t get clipped, the one that will make the jump, the one that will hold on just that little bit longer. The burn won’t burn, the ice won’t sear. The bear will glance aside on a moonless night. There must have been a time when Judith felt that way, but she can’t remember when; just one more indulgence a professional can’t afford. Young whores are brave; old whores cultivate cowardice. Knives cut, fire burns, smoke smothers: don’t wait to find out if you’re special.

She’s been planet-hopping for a while now, unhappy with everything on offer. Stratus is the best of a bad lot, densely settled, heterogeneous, oceans the deep purple of a three day bruise. Sex sells well enough; she’s not starving anyway. She opens a second house, then a third, could see herself settling down long term. It’s all good enough.

But she’s got an ear to the ground and when the first rumbles come—the anti-intellectualism, the fear of difference, the doublespeak—she doesn’t waste time mourning, just ups stakes and departs for sunnier climes. She paid her dues in blood long ago; let others carry the sword now.