He leaned against the back doors of the Fort Stanton Rec Center. Tonight, he was supposed to be all smiles and graciousness. This was his first real showing as CEO, and he supposed CEOs had to do stuff like this all the time. He had struggled in business classes. His father wouldn’t hear of him majoring in anything other than civil engineering. So he did what he always did—what was expected. He could see Longbourne Gardens from here—a battered condominium community next on his company’s list to redevelop. He thought a vegan bakery and possibly a pet-grooming spa would do well there. They were the type of terrible trendy shops that signaled to old inhabitants: You don’t belong here anymore. For the hundredth time, he asked himself if this was worth it. Be smooth and smiling. Deliver Netherfield Court on a silver platter.

He pulled a Treasurer cigarette from its slim gold package, then lit a match against the brick wall behind him and sucked his guilty pleasure down. Dorsey looked around at the liquor store and a church unironically named Our Lady of Perpetual Help sitting on opposite sides of the street, defiantly competing for the souls of the inhabitants. Cash-advance storefronts beamed neon Open signs that illuminated the cracked wet sidewalks like a vivid pulp detective movie. In his briefs, he was advised to engage in conversation about local curiosities, like that inexplicably giant chair on the corner of MLK. Apparently, it had held the title of World’s Largest Chair for a brief period. If he had to talk about upholstery at all tonight, he wouldn’t make it through the evening.

He saw her before she saw him. It took him a minute to be sure of what he was seeing—the image was so disjointed. A petite woman . . . naked? No, in a backless dress and some sort of large, furry hat on her head, hauling things out of a car. Yes . . . dragging what looked like picket signs out of a dark car.

Oh no. Not this shit.

“Where do you think you’re going with those?”

At the sound of his voice, she stilled and the dark car sped away with a cartoonish rubber-to-pavement sound. The woman squared her shoulders and turned around. Upon seeing him, she visibly relaxed her shoulders and put one finger to her full lips, winking conspiratorially.

“Hey, brother, don’t mind me.” She hopped to the rec center’s side door—not used to the heels, a tomboy playing at seductress. He then realized that the furry creature on her head was her hair. Dark coils defied gravity around her, like one of those eleventh-century frescos of monks with halos.

Here she comes, Our Lady of Perpetual Help.

The woman showed him the signs, which read, We Didn’t Ask 4 No Netherfield! and We Will Not Be Displaced. She was actually proud of this kindergarten display of disagreement.