My name is Roland.

On the night of my twenty-eighth birthday, my friends took me out for dinner. We shared heaps of enchiladas, frosty bottles of beer, limes on the rim. I tossed back a couple of shots. I blew out candles on a red velvet cake, and our waitress led all of us at the table in an off-key rendition of the happy birthday song. Earlier, I had left my car at home on purpose, because I knew I would have a beer or two at the restaurant. By the time we paid the bill, I had drunk seven bottles and downed four shots. I walked home from dinner alone, comforted by the false safety provided by my cell phone and the gauzy softness of my whiskey buzz.

It was only midnight, but my neighborhood was a quiet one at this hour. As I walked, I heard nothing more than my own steps as they hit the sidewalk. As I turned the corner onto my street, a person jumped on me from behind. Quick jabs to my kidneys brought me down to my knees, and something sharp punctured my skin…”