“Fulton County Police have linked three separate shootings today to a man in lime-green sneakers. No further details are available at this time, but please contact the police with any tips. Witnesses say the sneakers were unmistakably lime.

“Activists of the political movement Black Lives Matter issued an apology today for tweeting out the wrong address for a flash rally. Fact-checking also matters.”

Sol rolled her eyes.

“Polls show that 40 percent of Metro Atlanta residents feel affected by last month’s terrorist attack, and 74 percent of Metro Atlanta residents feel another attack is imminent. The investigation of the atrocities is still ongoing. Please contact the FBI with any leads.”

“Atrocity? Yeah, right,” Sol muttered.

“In other news, charter school Our Children Deserve a Future has won its right to a countywide lottery system, enraging parents who were hoping a win would allow them to enroll their children this upcoming fall. Gwinnett County school officials called the ruling a step toward the fairness all children deserve. The parents who initiated the suit, who all lived within walking distance of the school, called the ruling a tragedy.

“Speaking of tragedies, Andre 3000 of rap group OutKast announced that over two hundred gigabytes of unreleased material were erased from his computer by an overzealous debugging program. A hacker group has offered to help him recover the files. The catch: they only take blank checks.”

The driver laughed, annoying Sol. She’d missed the news while she was locked up, but not this news, jokes masquerading as concern masquerading as information masquerading as truth masquerading as jokes. She knew everything had a spin, but this kind of news was centrifugal.

An hour later, the rain was still going strong, intensifying as they slid into a still neighborhood off Dekalb Avenue. Sol looked at the humble homes of Melrose Avenue with no nostalgia, watching the sidewalk inexplicably end as they drove deeper into the neighborhood. Sol used to hate having to step off the sidewalk and into the street, looking over her shoulder to avoid speeding vehicles. The only thing she hated more than being watched was having to watch out for the recklessness of others.

“You need me to stay here?” the driver asked, pulling into the driveway of Sol’s parents’ house. “You never know when the terrorists could strike again.”

“No,” Sol responded firmly, stepping out of the car. She watched him reverse, walking into the street to ensure he was headed back toward Dekalb. Sol hated when people tried to capitalize off fear. She wasn’t above it, but she only did it for survival, not for gain.