A few years ago, I stood with my mother as the head of her department gave a news conference about the success of the City Pride Program. He showed picture after picture of the roads before the curfew was put into place. The images of yawning black holes several feet deep, ever-lengthening cracks, and the perpetual traffic backups caused by the gaps and the feeble attempts at repairs made everyone agree that the late-night driving restriction was both necessary and effective.

Since it is currently summer and Friday night, the lack of cars means more pedestrians and carriages and bike riders are wandering the popular city streets around the La Salle Street Bridge when I arrive. I come to a stop before the bridge near a man sitting on a bucket playing a dull silver saxophone. The low notes color the air with melancholy as I look around for whoever it is I am supposed to meet.

There is no one who seems to be watching me, and no one I see strolling in the clear night looks dangerous. I take several deep breaths, secure my bike to an iron rack not far from the street musician, and start across the bridge. As I walk, I study every face that passes. Couples of various ages holding hands. A large group of men wearing blue-and-red baseball attire. Groups of three and four laughing and telling jokes and slapping high fives as they stroll to whatever their next destination might be.

Twelve thirty finds me standing in the center of one of the pedestrian walkways holding my breath. I turn in a circle, waiting for someone in a black sweatshirt to appear. Only no one comes.

Each minute feels longer than the last. Five minutes pass like an hour. The next ten are an eternity. The woman who sent me here is screwing with my mind. These people are just trying to hurt me, and I’m letting them. I should go home.

But I don’t. Not quite yet, because I can’t let go of the idea that my mother was hiding a huge truth about herself and this could be my only chance to learn it.

I jump at every voice. Still nothing. A girl in a flirty red dress and sparkling heels laughs with abandon as she comes my way. Her date calls for her to wait up as I turn and lean my forehead against the cold iron of the bridge to stare at the dark water below. It’s over, I tell myself. No one is coming, and I’m not sure if I’m angry or relieved.

“Excuse me, miss. What time is it?”

Turning, I see a boy a few years older than me in a black shirt and red tie standing several steps away. His face is cast in shadows by the brim of a black fedora. Behind him is the girl in the red dress, whose laugh has been replaced by an annoyed frown.

I glance at the time on my phone. “It’s twelve forty-nine.” It’s time for me to go home. I slide the phone into the front pocket of my bag and turn to go back to my bike.