Trotting west along 59th, past the ranks of shattered glass towers, I felt a difference in the air—the greenhouse reek of dirt and living vegetation. The uptown side of the street was dense with leafy darkness. A throat-tingling hum stirred the quiet and roused my street caution as surely as it drew me toward its pulsing light. From a distance, it was thrilling.

At Sixth Avenue, the first working streetlamp revealed I was no longer alone.

A whole den’s worth of people were camped out along the sidewalk. Lumpish shapes sagging beneath the trees, others upright against the trunks. A hundred eyes following me. Spasms of deep coughing, an occasional moan. A shadow detached from the base of the streetlight and shuffled into my path, skeletal hands outstretched. Diseased or just hungry? I swerved away, glaring a warning, then saw his hands were full of stuff too bent or degraded to be identified.

Not begging. Trying to sell me something.

At the next streetlight, more hands, more shapeless merchandise. A voice rasped, “Whatever you can pay!” as I hurried by.

Were these people too far gone to find a den? Were they the rejects, the truly homeless? I hadn’t fully considered the implications of ‘no-man’s-land.’ I wasn’t even there yet but already I knew the lessons from the Souk wouldn’t all be positive.

The buzzy hum soon resolved into voices, music, the calls of vendors, arguments, electronic beeps and bells. Even a dog barking: alive? Never seen a live one in my den life, but I dreamed of dogs now and then. Maybe one particular dog. Hard to tell. Many dens kept cats to control the vermin, but dogs cost too much to feed. Plus, with plague reports resurfacing, no one wanted a flea magnet around.

The old stone gates at Central Park West were the Souk’s official entrance. My stomach tingled as I approached. The Souk! At last!

Outside, next to the toppled statue of Columbus, five uniforms sat on beat-up battery-powered trikes, playing games on their phone cuffs and hoping for some live action. Big, buff guys and gals, looking like they owned the place. Jake called them ‘Soukies’ and said they wore the old NYPD blue in honor of the officers gone down in the waves, but the Merchants’ Association, not the city, now wrote their pay chits. The rule was, they stayed outside the gates unless a vendor called them in. Inside, they made the customers nervous, and I could see why.

As I neared, a quartet of youngsters moved off, pouting and scowling. From Macy’s, most likely, the kid den. These were really young, even for Macys.

“Bring your parents next time,” an officer called. As if they had any.

The Souk had an age limit? Maybe just a Macys limit. The kids were genius at picking pockets, but why send them packing? They’d just get in at the side, past the end of the wall.