We were underneath the stilts of the Skyway. The endless detritus of the South Side stretched depressingly on either side of the road. I’d been focusing on the potholes in front of me when some motion caught the corner of my eye. A couple of guys, poking through the debris. They stopped when I stopped and turned to glare at me. The lights from the highway overhead leaked through the joins in the road and glinted on their tire irons. I squinted beyond them, trying to make out what they were hacking at: the smooth, round fender of a new car.

I pulled my gun from my holster and grabbed Mitch’s leash. “Stay in the car,” I barked at Mr. Contreras. I wrenched the door open and was out and in the road before he could object.

I had Mitch’s leash in my left hand, the gun in my right. “Drop your weapons! Hands in the air!”

They yelled obscenities at me, but Mitch was growling, lunging against his collar.

“I can’t hold him long,” I warned, advancing on them.

Headlights from above dipped and slipped along our bodies. Mitch’s teeth gleamed in the gliding lights. The two dropped their tire irons and put their hands above their heads, backing away from me. When they’d moved, I could see the car. A Miata, driven so hard into the pile of boards and bedsprings that only its tail was visible, with the trunk pried open, and the license plate: The Kid 1.

“Where did you find this car?” I demanded.

“Fuck off, ’ho. We got here first.” The speaker dropped his hands and started toward me.

I fired the gun, wide enough to make sure I didn’t hit them but close enough to make them pay attention. Mitch roared with fear: he’d never heard a gun go off. He barked and jumped, trying to get away from me. I burned my fingers on the hot barrel as I fumbled the safety into place while Mitch snarled and bucked. When I had him somewhat under control, I was sweating and panting, and Mitch was shaking, but the two gangbangers had turned to stone, their hands once more behind their heads.

Mr. Contreras appeared next to me and took the leash. I was trembling myself, and grateful to him, but I didn’t say anything, just made sure my voice came out steady when I spoke to the guys.

“The only name you two punks call me is ‘ma’am.’ Not ‘’ho,’ not ‘bitch,’ not any nasty word that pops into your disgusting heads and out your mouths. Just ‘ma’am.’ Now. Which one of you drove this car down here?”

They didn’t say anything. I made a great show of releasing the safety on the Smith & Wesson.

“We found it here,” one of them said. “What’s it to you?”