I shut down my art application, call up my history text, and jump to the chapter on the end of city violence in the United States of America—starting with Chicago—and the rise of a new doctrine of Pride.

The photographs are as terrible as I remember. Buildings burning. Children sprawled like broken dolls on cracked asphalt—rusted chain-link swings sitting empty in the distance. Face after face of people of all ages terrified to go out of their homes because of the people who robbed and sold drugs and murdered. All of the gang members pictured in the history text look intimidating—especially when smiling at the camera. Their grins are cocky and belligerent—as if they are daring someone, anyone, to try to stop them.

I look at the dates under the photos: May 25, 2017. December 17, 2018. This was what the city—the whole country, really—was like just a few decades ago. The country was at war with itself while our armed forces were scattered in wars around the globe. If they hadn’t returned in order to set our country free from the unpatriotic who were determined to terrorize it, who knew what the city would be like now?

Only, the guy in the rain last night didn’t fit in with the images in front of me. He didn’t have an assault rifle or a sharp, bloodstained knife. Just the yellow umbrella, a couple of earrings, and the folded paper he handed to me.

But according to Mr. Webster, the man I met is dangerous—not just to me but to my family and friends and even the entire city.

I lean my head against the window and watch Mrs. Johnson and her toy poodle, Bruiser, coming down the sidewalk. The fluffy white dog stops every few feet to sniff at a tree or a plant, then yips at the car parked at the curb. Still barking, he lifts his leg and pees on the car’s gold-and-silver back tire rim. Mrs. Johnson tugs at Bruiser’s leash and yanks him away. The dog continues yapping at the car until he and Mrs. Johnson are out of sight.

I slide off the window seat and pace the room. Mr. Webster had listened to my problem, promised to fix it, and given me an answer about it that made sense. Part of me just wants to forget the whole thing. But the longer he and Rose are gone, the more questions I seem to have.

Like why did the man with the umbrella give me that paper and then disappear?

Why did it seem that my mother’s paintings were leading me to that exact spot?

And why had the woman been standing across the street from the school waving at me to follow? Was that what she was doing or did I just imagine it? And if she had been signaling me, was there a chance she was still in that area?

Waiting?

If so, then it’s possible the woman across the street from the school could have answers to some of my questions. Answers I need if my father and I are ever going to move on, but suddenly I’m not sure if I want them. Suddenly, I realize there’s a chance I don’t know my mother at all. If “verify” is some sort of code used by a violent gang . . . if the man who gave the paper to me was a member . . . and my mother knew him . . .