“That sucks.”

She quirks a brow. “Does it? We don’t have to go all the way to Fort Greene to find a chill place now.”

I thought the old place was more chill than this prefab dive bar, but I’m annoyed and don’t feel like talking to this kid anymore.

“Right.” I scrub a hand through my hair, nod, then point at the door behind me. “I’m going to head out.”

She leans forward a little more, and the heads of the dudes lining the bar swivel to check out her ass. “See you around.”

I heave a sigh and walk back, the humid air clinging to me along with an even crappier mood. I’m not drunk, or even buzzed, but the two glasses of bourbon paired with the disappointment of the night were just enough to leave me feeling sullen. I glance into dark windows as I walk, noticing how almost all the newly renovated places I pass have cameras pointed at their front doors now. Kim had wanted to get one of those systems, too, but I’d told her I didn’t want her to be able to monitor when I leave and enter the house from the comfort of her phone—though I doubt she cares enough to bother.

I’m passing by the old hospital, and stop to casually look through the fence surrounding the building—there’s all kinds of construction equipment littered around the place, and I wonder what’s inside. Had they already cleared everything out? I hear a noise like scraping metal and lean closer.

The building is dark and the weak yellow-orange glow filtering from the streetlights barely illuminates the area past the fence. The windows are nothing but uniform black, but then a thin line of light flickers somewhere in the depths of that darkness, on the floor that’s slightly lower than ground level. I blink a couple of times and lean closer, squinting to try to catch sight of that weird flicker again . . .

A hand clamps down on my shoulder and, a second later, is followed by a heavy weight slamming me into the fence.

A body.

The chain link rattles as instinct kicks in and I struggle to pull my hands out of my pockets to fight back, but my attacker is big and wraps me in a bear hug. Thin strips of warm, grimy metal press a diamond shape into the side of my face as the weight slumps against me, a heart hammering against my shoulder blade and breaths coming fast and shallow.

Whoever it is smells like pissed pants and body odor, and I suck in breath through my mouth to avoid gagging.

“M-m-mo—” A deep voice stutters in my ear, but the end of the word is clipped as a violent shudder passes through the person, vibrating through me and the chain link.

I force myself to relax, sagging into the fence, then push back hard as soon as the grip loosens in response, catching them off balance so they stumble away from me.

When I turn around, already squared up and with a rage in my veins that I’ve avoided for years now, I see a heavyset Black guy in a T-shirt and jeans reaching for me as he sways on his feet. He grasps at me a few times, but comes away with palmfuls of air as I step out of reach.

I imagine Kim giving me a smug look and telling me she tried to warn me. I knock his hands away as he reaches for me again.

“What the fuck, man?” I grit out.

He lists sideways, then struggles to right himself, the streetlight glinting in his dull eyes. It’s then that I notice how delayed his motions are, how his dark irises have been eaten by the blown-out black of his pupils.

He squints at me and slurs something that sounds like “Mummy.”

“What?”

He thrusts his hand toward me, closing and then opening it, and I finally understand.

“Money?” I snort a laugh of frustration, and he shakes his head, then nods. “Sorry, pal.”

He talks again, still sounding like he’s speaking around a mouthful of marbles. “Bring money. Help me, man.”

I sigh and drop my guard a bit. “You can’t just grab people like that. And sorry, I can’t help you.”

His eyes widen in confusion, shining with tears. “Please. Please.”

He really isn’t in good shape.

“Do you want me to call an ambulance? Get you to a hospital?”

He stares at me for a moment, his eyes briefly focusing, and then he grabs me by the collar and slams me against the fence again.

“No! No! No!” he shouts directly into my face, so close that I can tell he hasn’t brushed his teeth for days just before his spittle lands on the corner of my lip.

I’m about to land a blow to his kidney when the sudden high-pitched warning blip of a siren down the street drags his attention from me. When red and blue lights wash over us, he lets me go and tears off running, ungainly and stumbling.

A black sedan, an undercover car, pulls up to me as I’m adjusting my collar, and the man in the passenger side, a white guy with a beefy face and a buzz cut, rolls down his window. The barest hint of cold air passes over my forearm as I step closer to the car.

“You see a big, crazy crackhead around here?” he asks. “Giant Black guy? We got some reports of a man hassling people.”

His partner, an Italian-looking guy with a mustache, leans forward and fixes me with his stare.

I point down the street and see that my hand’s shaking from the adrenaline rush. “He went that way. Attacked me when I wouldn’t give him money.”

“Is that so? Can’t help themselves, I guess.” The buzz-cut cop chuckles mirthlessly and gives his head a shake. “All right. We’ll bring him in.”

He reaches for a walkie-talkie.

“You know it’s dangerous for you to be out around here this late, right?” the mustache cop says. “Give it a year or so.”

They blip the siren again and then take off fast down the street in the direction of my attacker.

My heart is thumping furiously in my chest and my legs feel shaky from delayed adrenaline as I walk toward the house, but I keep thinking about the attacker’s eyes. Even when he had his hands at my throat, he didn’t have the look of someone who wanted to kill me. To hurt me. To be honest, he’d looked . . . scared.

Addiction is a hell of a disease. I can’t even feel good that the cops showed up because jail won’t help that guy, either. I regret letting them know he attacked me and sending them after him, though maybe I’ve saved the next person the guy might have encountered.

I’m a few yards away from the house when I see Kim sprint down the stairs into a car waiting at the curb, an overnight bag on her shoulder.

I don’t call out her name. I just take the additional gut punch, though it feels like a light tap at this point.

After the car pulls away, I walk up the steps. As I unlock the door, I look up and to my left, into the black square lens of a doorbell camera. What the hell? I head to my apartment, scrub the hell out of my face and hands with hand sanitizer, and stare out the window.

Across the street, TVs flicker in various windows, a checkerboard of blue lights, and in the distance, a police siren wails.

Gifford Place OurHood post by Derek James:

Anyone been feeling the ground shake at night sometimes? Feels like when I used to live on Nostrand over the A train line. You think all this construction is messing with the already fucked up infrastructure? I’m not tryna die by sinkhole.

Angie C.: Does it always happen at 2 am?

Derek James: Yes!

Angie C.: That’s the witching hour, my guy. Get you some holy water and some sage and you’ll be straight.

Chapter 5

Sydney

AS I BRUSH MY TEETH WITH ONE HAND, I HAVE MY PHONE IN the other, web browser open, scrolling through search results for “why does it feel like my bed is shaking when I fall asleep?”

My other searches this morning have been “earthquake + Brooklyn” and “do demons shake your bed,” so whichever NSA Brad is collecting my Google searches is probably having a good laugh.

I, on the other hand, am so tired I want to throw up.

The only nonsupernatural explanation in the results is that high stress levels and overconsumption of caffeine can create the sensation that your bed is shaking, like how you sometimes feel like you’re falling even though neither your body nor your bed has moved.

I place the phone on the edge of the sink and finish brushing my teeth.

My phone buzzes and a text message pops up: Hello Ms. Green, we’re messaging you with a lucrative offer on your house! Please contact us at 212–555-CASH.

I trash the message, minty-hot rage zinging through me as I spit and rinse my mouth.

These vultures can even harass you by text now? It’s like real estate psychological warfare—they bombard you with flyers, blow up your phone, have people showing up at your door, and now can show up in your text inbox. How many people do they wear down, or catch in a moment of weakness or desperation?

Bastards.