Living in Philadelphia, a young woman tries to outrun her regrets and the reoccurring approach of dawn with nothing but controlled substances, unfulfilling sex and sarcasm to sustain her anti-quest. Unable to find solace in her best friend Jason, her partner in crime Kat or her pot smoking mother she embarks on a relentless pursuit of distraction which leads her to New York and back, through night clubs, dive bars and dingy apartments until she finds herself hurtling towards a point where there is no up, only down. Then she notices a man on a train reading a book she loves, and convinced he is her only chance at salvation, sets out on mission to find out who he is. Infatuation becomes obsession and as her grip on reality shakes loose, she sinks to previously unfathomable lows before learning that redemption is never so close as when you hit the bottom. With dark humor and a biting tone, this compelling story moves along like a train careening down the track, leaving the reader pulling for its perfectly flawed heroine to the very last page. “I found the book compulsive, extremely real, and the narrator has stayed with me since I finished the novel. Moorhead writes with a simplicity that draws the reader straight into the narrator's mind and doesn't release you. Very strong.” ― Rebbecca Ray, author of PURE K.R. Moorhead is originally from Philadelphia, and is currently teaching undergraduate Creative Writing at the University of East Anglia in Norwich, UK, where she earned her Masters in Creative Writing in 2007. The First Law of Motion A Novel By Moorhead, K.R. St. Martin's Griffin Copyright © 2009 Moorhead, K.R. All right reserved. ISBN: 9780312547295 “WHAT’S WITH THE SCAR?” He had stumbled toward me from across the party, sloshing cheap, watery beer over the rim of his red plas­tic cup. I watched it disappear into the ugly carpet. Now he’s standing too close to me, breathing too heavily, and I think about all the undergrads who have puked, pissed, shat, fucked, and spat on that carpet over the years. I drop my cigarette onto it and grind the butt in with the heel of my sneaker. He presses his giant ham of an index .nger into the circular scar on my left upper arm. I want to punch him in the face. When is it OK to touch a complete stranger? CPR, Heimlich maneuver? A life- or-death situation, maybe, and even then I’d be uncomfortable. I put my hoodie on. “I was born in Vietnam. It’s an inoculation scar.” This is bullshit. Actually, it’s from when I let some guy I met in a bar burn me with his cigarette just to prove that I could take it. I can be a real fucking idiot sometimes. “But you’re white.” A genius. “No shit, asshole.” I take a busted pack of Marl­boros out of my back pocket and light one. “Hey, fuck you, bitch.” He stumbles back across the room. Good riddance. I don’t know why I come to these things.  House parties attract the world’s most boring people. Which most de.nitely makes me boring. I take a .ask out of my hoodie pocket and take a swig. It’s not as hard- core as I want it to look because it’s whiskey and Coke, but I refuse to be seen with one of those plastic keg cups. Fuck that. I end up sitting on the back steps leading to the square of cement that somehow manages to pass for a backyard in this godforsaken end of this godforsaken city, rolling a joint. A few randoms stand around smok­ing cigarettes. A tall guy in baggy corduroys makes his way over to me as I spark up. Mooch. “Can I sit down?” I slide across the step. “Is that a J?” “Yeah.” “Can I get a hit?” Does he know how hard it is to get green in this city right now? I paid good money for this shit. “Yeah, sure.” He takes a long, no, a fucking luxurious drag on my joint and hands it back. He straightens up, strug­gling to hold the smoke in his lungs. I take a few light pu.s and exhale through my nose. Finally he exhales as well. “Thanks, I needed that. This party is lame.” “Fair enough.” “Where’d you get that anyway? That’s good shit.” “My mom.” This is true. “Ha right. Hey”—he leans in close and hurls his Coors Light breath at me—“you wanna line?” Fuck yeah. “Fuck yeah.” A herd of ugly drunk people desperate for a piss shout and bang on the bathroom door. From the sound of it someone’s either retching or fucking in there, so I grab him by the sleeve and lead him up to the attic bedroom, which has a latch on it. I don’t really know the people who live  here, but I’ve been over a few times with Kat, and once I bought mushrooms from the guy who lives in this room. I tripped balls that night. I latch the door and we sit on the bed. The room is cramped with a low, slanted ceiling. He .nds an All-man Brothers CD case and cuts up two fat lines with his Delaware County Community College ID before holding the case out to me and handing me a rolled-up . ve- dollar bill. Classy. I blow through what I think is the bigger of the two lines. It’s like breathing sand, and it sears down the ba