“Go left at the short passageway next to the Auntie Anne’s Pretzels,” Diane says. “It’s faster. As long as we don’t stop for a pretzel.”

“I can’t make any promises,” says Willie.

The tunnel bears right. It seems to become a little darker. Two teenage guys pass us, obviously in a hurry. The tunnel has very few people in it, and ahead of us is a sign that says DOWNTOWN, WALL STREET, BROOKLYN. We head toward that sign. On our left is an open metal door. I wouldn’t notice that door except for the loud groaning coming from inside.

Diane speaks, her voice full of urgency, “Oh, my God. It looks like somebody’s hurt.” She stops. All three of us walk through the door into what appears to be a small storage room. A man, possibly a homeless person, is lying on the ground. To my surprise Diane yells, “Fuck, man. This guy is bleeding.”

Did she just say fuck?

The door slams. The lights flicker. Then Willie yells, “Mom. No lights.” And immediately a deep hard pain spins across the front of my head.

“Mom!” I hear. I fall on top of the homeless man, who squirms out from beneath me.

“Somebody got the kid?” the man shouts.

I hear Diane’s voice. “I got the boy.” The front of my head is throbbing. Blood drips into my right eye and nose. My eye burns. I taste the blood. Then the room is flooded with light.

The homeless man doesn’t look very homeless anymore. He is standing. He’s a big guy—football-lineman-size. He wears a crisp white shirt and black pants.

Then I see Diane. She has an intense hammerlock on Willie.

“Let go of him,” I shout.

Willie struggles. He’s a tough, wiry little guy, but he is, after all, just a little guy.

“Let go,” I yell, but then the big asshole grabs me tight around my waist with one arm. With his other hand he turns my purse upside down and empties its contents onto the floor.

“Pick up the wallet and give it to me,” the man says, and now I see that he is holding a very small pistol against my ribs. For all I know it’s really a toy, but I’m not about to test that theory.

He loosens his grip on me and I bend down but with the gun still jammed against me. I lift my fake-alligator wallet—stuffed with credit cards and coupons and photos and notes and, of course, two hundred dollars fresh from the ATM machine—and I hand it to him.

“Give me those pills,” the guy says. He’s pointing to two CVS prescription bottles. One is a bottle of Lexapro, an antidepressant that every other person in New York City takes. The other is Lipitor, an anticholesterol medication.

“These won’t do any good for you,” I say about the Lipitor.