It wasn’t until later that I thought: What about him? Every day after work he was alone at home, calling to ask why I wasn’t busier.

After every shift I drove home through the Tenderloin and parked in a private lot at Fourth and Bryant, two blocks from the apartment. The neighborhood was thick with car theft. Windows were broken for a few cents’ change. Usually, I had to open the lot’s fence with a key, but one night it wasn’t locked. I saw a small crowd gathered around a steel drum fire. One guy leaned against the side of a dark Jeep, or maybe it was a woman, tipping a bottle of something into his mouth, or hers—I couldn’t catch the shape, wine or a forty, but I saw firelight glinting on the glass.

I got nervous. I circled the block once, thinking, Should I stop? Am I crazy? and finally drove in. There were four of them—now I could see each figure clearly. One was leaning down toward a car window, and I wondered if that meant there was someone inside, a fifth, napping or fiddling with the car stereo. I could hear faint music, something electronic and jagged like a seismograph, moving one of those men like a puppet. He raised his arms and writhed like a shaman under the streetlight.

It didn’t have to be complicated. I’d park and then I’d open my door and then I’d close it behind me. I’d walk to the street. I wouldn’t lob my fear at them—the way you can, the way I’d done—casting glances over hunched shoulders. I’d walk away. Three of them turned to face my car and clinked bottles. The shaman kept dancing, still glimmering under his yellow spotlight. The one against the Jeep wasn’t a woman, I could tell. I pulled up the emergency brake and unbuckled my seat belt. I didn’t want to be afraid.

They didn’t come any closer, but two of them walked toward the open section of fence, two large swinging panels, and pulled them shut. I felt my throat and my stomach go knotted. I took a deep breath, and it hurt. My eyes steamed with tears. Maybe imagining the worst thing would mean the worst thing couldn’t come true.

I checked the rearview mirror. The dancing man wasn’t dancing anymore. The other guys were standing by the fence they’d closed. I pulled out my phone. I needed to bring another voice inside the fence. I needed that voice to tell me what to do.

“Stella?” Tom’s voice was gruff with sleep.

“I’m in the middle of something,” I said. “I’m a little scared.”