“I live on the Westside, I work on the Westside, and I have a Class C permit, which allows—”

“Crossing the fence any time during normal business hours.”

“So let me through!”

He draped his jaundiced fingers across my shoulder and tried to look concerned. The leather man stepped off the sidewalk and waded into traffic, howling for blood.

“You know, miss, you step through that door, the city cannot guarantee your safety.”

“Remove your hand from my shoulder or I will bite the knuckles to the bone.”

“Oh, miss,” he said, as disappointed as if his favorite terrier had just turned rabid. “Very well. Proceed at your own risk.”

The shopkeeper and his friends fought two or three ill-defined lanes of automobiles, pushcarts, and horse carts, screaming for the gateman to stop. He was too preoccupied with the mechanism of the gate to pay them any mind. The squat iron door eased open. The leather man leapt, and his fingers brushed my shoulder as I threw myself through the gate.

Damp moss broke my fall. Broadway was muffled by the sound of falling water. A silver cataract cascaded down the crumbling facade of an abandoned tenement, pouring over broken windows, splashing onto the moss-blanketed street, and rushing into the gutter. I have scaled that unsteady building, and seen the source of that waterfall, which bubbles straight from the peeling black tar roof. It is an impossible wonder. Such things are common here.

When I stopped shaking, I twirled to face the men who had chased me, who now stood before the gate, too timid to cross into the Westside. I waved the glove at them. It was a childish gesture—how could I resist?

The leather man took the gateman by the collar and screamed in his face.

“Retrieve her!”

“Sir. If you would be so kind as to let me go.”

“She’s a thief.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But my authority stops at the fence. Go after her. Cut her. Gut her. It doesn’t matter to me. But I’ll tell you what I told her: step through this gate, and you take your life in your hands.”

My pursuers shifted back and forth, rubbing the sweat from their necks, each waiting for the other to take the first step.

“Sirs,” said the gateman, a touch disappointed, “if you’ll not be crossing, it’s against regulations to leave the gate ajar.”

The leather man was beaten. The gate swung closed, and the locks slammed into place. The rancid odor of September in Manhattan faded, replaced by the crisp, almost metallic Westside air. I dug my fingers into my hair and loosed the shaggy chignon that I generously call a hairstyle. Knotted curls fell across the peaked black shoulders of my jacket, which dangled around my slim black dress. I breathed deep. I was home.