I walked over to Belmont and Halsted to catch the el. No one seemed to be following me. My legs ached as I climbed the stairs to the platform. Mr. Contreras was right: the day was coming when I wouldn’t be able to swing from the chandeliers any longer—I could already feel its shadow in my muscles.

The air-conditioning wasn’t working on the train I caught and its windows didn’t open. The Sox were playing a night game at home. Happy fans in cutoffs had joined the overflow of commuters to make the ride one of suffocating misery.

When I got off at Thirty-first, I was so glad to be outside again I decided to walk to the Impala. I sketched a wave to the Number 31 bus as it left the station, relieved not to be one of the standing sardines packed on such a muggy night.

My Nikes were at the bottom of the San. The loafers I’d put on didn’t offer much support. My feet began to hurt about halfway to the car, but I plodded on past bus stops. The evening sky was starting to thicken with rain clouds again. The first drops began to fall as I got to Damen. I sprinted the half block to Thirty-first Place, where I’d left the car. No one seemed to have vandalized it. I’d been worrying about that on the ride south, wondering whether Luke would even bother to fix the Trans Am if his own precious baby were damaged.

The keys had been in my jeans pocket when I went into the drink. The ring looked rusted out, but the ignition turned without faltering. I’d also salvaged Mrs. Polter’s front-door key. The knot I’d tied through my belt loop had held through my gyrations Friday night.

When I got to her house on Archer, the rain was falling in a thick sheet. I ran full tilt up the rickety stairs, slipping on the worn wood in my loafers. I was soaked before I got to the top. My fingers, thick with cold from my drenching, fumbled with her front-door lock.

By the time I got it open Mrs. Polter was waiting on the other side. The hall was so dark it was hard to see, but the twilight behind me glinted from the fire extinguisher she was pointing at me. I hunched my head down under my forearms to protect my eyes, and lunged under her outstretched arms into her abdomen. It was like butting my head into a mattress. We both grunted. I turned underneath her armpits and wrestled the extinguisher from her grip.

“Mrs. Polter,” I panted. “How kind of you to welcome me in person.”

“You’re wet,” she announced. “You’re dripping all over the linoleum.”

“It’s the canal. Your pals pushed me in, but I managed to climb out. Want to talk about it?”