From a large duffel bag I pull out a boot knife, a collapsible baton, a canister of red pepper spray, an S&W Model 60 five-shot revolver, and a CZ 75 pistol, along with spare magazines for the CZ and a pair of speedloaders for the five-shot and holsters for both. The CZ goes in a cross-draw holster on my left hip; the S&W sits in a pancake holster at the small of my back. The rest of the gear goes on my belt or various other places. I put on the leather jacket, which effectively covers all of this. Although Georgia is an open-carry state, I’d rather not advertise I’m packing. There are other goodies in the duffel bag, but I zip it shut.

If I were a man, all this hardware would be weaponized testosterone, a threatening expression of power. Some men carry guns to project fearlessness in a kind of commando cosplay—mine’s bigger, don’t fuck with me. I don’t pretend I’m not afraid. The world is a terrifying place, with some awful people in it. I don’t carry all this gear to project anything. I carry it to keep myself safe, and I’m good at using it when I have to. But tonight, when I’m wired six ways to Sunday on adrenaline and anxiety, part of me wants an excuse to draw down on someone.

Only part of me, though.

From one more storage bin I retrieve a motorcycle helmet with a dark smoke face shield and a set of keys. I leave my street clothes and duffel in the storage unit, close and lock it up, and then walk down the hall toward the back of the building, the weapons a comfortable weight beneath my jacket.

I exit through another door into a parking lot at the back of the Store-N-Go. It’s no cooler outside than it was a few minutes ago, and I begin to sweat underneath the leather jacket as I walk through the lot. The lot doesn’t have a roof but is surrounded by a ten-foot-high chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Underneath a waterproof cover is my motorcycle, a Triumph Thruxton 1200. I’d prefer a car—bigger, more storage, easier to take passengers—but for moving around a city quickly and getting in and out of tight spots, a motorcycle is hard to beat. I remove and fold up the cover and put it in the bike’s storage compartment. Helmet on, I start the motorcycle and back it out of its space, then pull forward to the gate, tripping the photoelectric sensor so it opens. The bike rumbles beneath me—it wants to be unleashed. I know how it feels. I roll out of the lot and down an alley between the Store-N-Go and the Subway. When I hit the street, I open up the throttle and shoot off into the night, heading west.

Toward the Bluff.