He’s not joking. One second we are standing just beyond the bridge. The next I’m being yanked to a set of steps that leads down to an area right next to the river. I almost miss a step and have to let go of his hand to grab the rail. He doesn’t turn to help or slow his steps and I struggle to regain my balance before racing after him.

“My bicycle is on the other side of the bridge!” I yell. “I have to go back and get it.” My parents gave it to me three years ago for my birthday and it was my mother who picked out the color—the exact shade of the sun when it starts to set. I don’t want to lose it or the ability to get away quickly if I change my mind about Geeze here and wherever he’s leading me.

“I’ll see that your bike is taken care of,” he shouts back, never losing a step. “This way.”

He zigzags through a brightly lit area filled with silver tables and chairs and heads down another set of steps that are less well lit. The river slaps against the black iron footings below. The sound accompanies our footsteps and the faint rattling of a jackhammer somewhere in the distance. The water. The rattling. The darkness. The path we take through shadows and around iron barriers. Together they create a symphony of sound that, combined with the lack of people anywhere in sight, makes my throat go dry and my shallow breath come faster.

Instinct screams for me to turn around and bail, but I ignore it and keep going.

Another iron bridge rises out of the darkness. I know there are many bridges that cross the Chicago River, but I’ve never seen them from this vantage point and I am not sure which one we are facing. The lack of orientation only adds to my bubbling anxiety as Geeze heads to another set of stairs and begins to climb.

My legs are tired, and I’m breathing hard by the time we reach the street above.

“Wait up,” I gasp.

Geeze doesn’t say anything, but he does stop next to the first building as I grip my side and wipe the sweat off my forehead.

He seems to be watching the darkened shadows of the staircase where we just emerged. Then, slowly, he scans the street. There is a jogger running across the bridge. A group of people are standing in a huddle outside a doorway at the start of the next block.

Whatever Geeze sees must be fine to him because he takes my hand and says, “This way.”

He doesn’t comment on my sweaty palm as we walk down the sidewalk beside the empty street at a normal gait. I pick up my pace when I spot a man with a scruffy beard, tattered clothes, and a hat pulled low standing in a darkened doorway to our left. Geeze, however, stops walking, and the viselike grip he has on my hand means I have no choice but to stop, too.