“Quinn’s blood came back positive for amphetamines,” she said. “You’ll see it in the report. What meth does to your facial musculature, your teeth and skin, can be horrible.”

The night before, I’d debated whether even to write down what I’d seen. I wanted to follow Vince and Gwen’s advice, tell a positive story about the south side, and maybe it would be better to let readers imagine Quinn thriving, to have them see the south side as a place where a person could flourish. But I’d shaken it off, put everything on paper, solid.

Dr. Kriss asked me to call her immediately if I saw him again, but I never did, and she seemed to forget all about him when we found the next subject.

2.

Everyone knew Zeke. Even I’d seen him before, during my ride-alongs. You couldn’t help but notice a guy stalking the streets in black leather pants, a black leather jacket, and Nikes wrapped with electrical tape. On a black ball cap, he’d used bleach to inscribe a cross with light beams shooting out. A Walkman clipped to his pants, he kept belting out tracks off Rubber Soul, his only tape.

Zeke was a bicycle thief. Right out in broad daylight, he’d use bolt cutters on chains and U-locks, spray-paint the bike frame black, and go looking for a buyer—ten bucks, five for a BMX. Occasionally you’d see someone ride by on one of Zeke’s bikes, black paint sticky in the sun, the south side’s unofficial transit.

Of course, it was hard to like a thief, but south-siders tolerated Zeke as he and his latest stolen ride cut through the needle-exchange lineup, reeking of spray paint, or as their conversations got drowned out by his tuneless Beatles singing. They also knew not to go too far with him. Any moment, he’d push the bike over and come at you with fists extended in a nineteenth-century boxing posture, eyes rolling, underbite clenched.

—

The dispatch came toward sunset. All at once, my listless hours on the ride-along gave way to fierce activity. It was a stabbing near the Glades development. Gwen executed a U-turn and we soared over asphalt as stray dogs moaned to the siren.

We pulled up to a crowd of south-siders and construction workers, the unfinished Glades looming over them. Even before I got out of the truck, I heard his brutal, unconscious shouts. But the crowd around Zeke was laughing, like they didn’t take the bike thief’s bleeding very seriously.

“Get back!” Vince barked.

The people parted. Planks of golden light struck Zeke where he lay, turning the blood black-violet. Two construction workers restrained him while a woman applied pressure to his gut. I’d never seen so much blood, they were all covered in it, you could smell the iron.

Zeke’s eyes had fixed on his belly as if invisible flames were spreading.