“Sure thing.” Tony takes the money, flattens each bill out, then rings up the purchase. He seems to debate a second before handing my ten dollars to Theo. “Sorry about the confusion. It’s hard putting things in order when you’re getting settled in.”

He doesn’t even look at me again. I turn and storm out of the store and hear Theo following close behind. He catches up in a few steps. “You forgot your carbonated vinegar and your money.”

I whirl on him and snatch both from his hands.

“What the fuck?”

“Whoa. I think you mean ‘Thanks for getting my money back.’”

“No! I said we should leave, and you went full white dude who doesn’t want to be told no!” I feel so dumb, yelling at him with tears in my eyes when he just helped me.

Ungrateful. Needy.

“So, we should have just let him steal your money? What was I supposed to do?”

I squeeze my eyes closed and my mouth shut and try to force back the rage that wants to explode out of every orifice because he’s right. When the feeling subsides, I say, “Yes. I was going to let him just steal my money. Because I did the mental math on how much time and energy I’d waste dealing with his bullshit, and that’s before factoring in what happens if the police show up. I’m tired, okay? I—”

I stop myself. I can’t tell him. I’d pegged him right when he walked into Mr. Perkins’s place. He was a strange white man, not my friend. I’m not sure I even have friends anymore.

Drea is typing . . . flashes in my head and I fight the urge to scream again.

“Look. Thank you. But I need to go home now.” The words feel like dust in my mouth.

“Sydney.” He looks like he wants to apologize, but I shake my head.

“You’re relieved of duty, research intern.”

“Wait, what? Like, for today or forever?”

I ignore him and he’s smart enough not to follow me.

When I get to the house I ignore the new batch of bills that’ve arrived, the new pile of cards promising quick cash if you just pull up your roots and leave everything you know. I put the kombucha in the fridge, grab a cigarette from the pack on the table, and pry open the door that leads to the backyard.

The heat-swollen wood resists until I tug so hard that I stumble back, cracking one of my nails in the process. Toby starts barking through the wooden fence, startling me, and for some reason that’s what causes the tears to start in earnest this time. I plop down on the back step, glad that most of the yard is paved over because the part that isn’t has thigh-high weeds that I’ll have to deal with sooner or later.

The dozens and dozens of plant clippings I’ve been ignoring out here have mostly managed to survive, at least. Some things do that without always needing help. It’s pathetic as hell to be outdone by a cherry tomato bush.

A tear drips off the end of my nose, soaking through the thin paper of the cigarette as I light it.

“Dammit!” I drop the lighter onto the ground as the flame licks out and burns my thumb; the dog starts barking even more wildly.

Our conversation with Kendra, the check in Drea’s room, Paulette’s fear of Theo, Tony’s shit at the brand-new bodega, Drea disappearing . . . it all swirls around in my head, threatening to overwhelm me.

I start to wonder if maybe I shouldn’t just give up on the tour. The neighborhood is changing too fast; maybe everything will be gone before I can even make the first demo. Maybe none of this matters because Mommy, the only one who actually believed I could do this, isn’t here to see it.

I exhale a cloud of smoke and shake my head, then wipe the tears from my eyes. I need to do this, even if only once, for the block party. Just to show that we were here, and we’re still here, and that fact matters, even if I throw out all the notes I made and the tour ends up being me bullshitting anecdotes about the people who made this neighborhood what it is.

Toby suddenly yips in pain, and I glance toward the fence. Toby is a menace, but I don’t want him getting hurt, either.

“Arwin! Leave that dog alone, will you?” Josie’s voice grates through the wooden slats of the fence.

“I’m just playing, Mom. You leave me alone!”

Lord, if I’d ever spoken to my mother this way she would’ve death-glared a hole into my soul.

Josie says, “Sorry, honey. But I’m trying to relax on my day off. And gardening is my way of relaxing.”

“That stuff smells!” Arwin complains. They are talking entirely too loud for two people right next to each other, driving my blood pressure up another point or two.

“It’s fertilizer. Do you know what that is?”

“No.”

“It’s shit, sweetie.”

Something about the way she says the curse word with such deliberation and relish, to her child, makes my shoulder blades tense up.

Arwin just giggles and yells, “Shit! Shit!”

Josie laughs, too. “Sometimes you have soil that isn’t good for growing things in anymore. It needs time to become fertile again. So you cover it with the shit, and then you wait. You let the shit do the work, then you come in and plant your crops. My grandfather taught me that. His grandfather taught him that.”

My phone vibrates in my hand and I’m so on edge that I almost drop it. I stiffen in the moment right before a name pops up on the screen, but it’s Len, not Drea.

Shit. I was supposed to go meet him in the garden.

“Hey,” I say, trying to sound like something other than a stressed-out wreck. “I’m sorry I’m late. I’m gonna head over right now. Can you wait a couple more minutes?”

“No.” His voice sounds like it did when he was a little boy, and then he clears his throat. “I was sitting on one of the benches waiting for you, with the kids, and the cops showed up.”

“What?” I stub out the cigarette, and I’m already through the back door and jogging past the kitchen table when he responds.

“Yeah. Um. They—they kicked all of us out? Everyone who was just chillin’ or gardening. Said it was on order of the owner, and I was confused because I thought your moms owned it. I tried to ask them what was happening, but they started pushing me—”

He stops and takes a shaky breath, and in that moment I hear the aggressive tone of a police officer in the background ordering people to disperse. I’ve heard that voice and that order on too many videos followed by hashtags on social media.

“I’m coming, okay? Just listen to the officers and walk away from the garden.”

“Okay.”

“Stay on the phone with me, Len. Don’t hang up until I get there.”

My hands shake as I lock the door, and then I run hard down the street, the soles of my sneakers pounding the pavement and my heart a wild, fearful thing trying to escape my chest.

No. No. No. No.

My disbelief keeps pace with my feet. This can’t be happening. Not after everything else.

When I get to Mommy’s garden, I find two officers standing in front of the chain-link fence. Just behind them, a wiry white man with graying hair is removing a new padlock from its plastic casing. The padlock Mommy used for years, more a deterrent than actual security, is on the ground, broken.

Inside, a crew of three or four other white guys in construction-worker uniforms of jeans and T-shirts are walking around examining everything. Taking notes. I see the decorations the kids had been making for the block party on the ground under their boots.

I’m too shocked to feel anything.

This is it.

This is the end of everything.

In my peripheral vision, I see Len standing with Ms. Candace. A few middle school kids on their bikes stand with feet on the ground and hands gripping their handlebars. Some of the older people who often come relax in the garden, or tend their own plots, keep watch, too.

I walk up to the officers, a strange sensation in my head like when the pressure drops on a plane and your ears stop up. Or like when the husband you thought you were giving a second chance gifts you an ebook titled Divorce for Dummies.

“Excuse me, officers. May I ask what’s happening here?” I manage to ask in my most polite, least threatening voice, even though strangers are invading Mommy’s garden.

My stomach twists.

“We’re here because the rightful owner of this land has reclaimed it from illegal usage,” one of the officers says. He’s wearing the same reflective aviator lenses Drew the Uber driver sported and sweat is beading up on the pink skin of his face—the garden is in direct sunlight at this time of day.

“The rightful owner?” I repeat. “This lot had no owner that could be traced. My mother checked several times. It had become a dumping ground and the city gave my mother a deed because she cleaned it up, made it better. The city said—”

“The city is not the owner,” the man with the lock says, slipping the key into his pocket as he saunters up. He has the face of a guy who would stand behind you on the subway and accidentally brush against your ass every other time the train took a sharp turn. “I’m the owner. I tracked down the relatives of the woman who originally owned this lot, and I bought it from them.”

“No. That doesn’t make sense.”