No. I’ve backslid a lot in the last few months, but I don’t do that anymore.

“For a second it looked like things might go sideways. The cops talked sense into everyone so things panned out, but that’s the part where we need more guys like you.” His hyperfriendly expression shifts just subtly enough around his mouth and eyes to become hateful. “I wish I could’ve been there. I’ve put up with months of attitude from that—”

“I thought the community garden already belongs to somebody,” I say. “Wouldn’t a developer just make an offer to whoever owns it?”

William shakes his head. “I guess they could do that. There was a provisional deed given by the city because the lot had been vacant for years and was an eyesore. Blah, blah, blah. You can pay the person who owns it. But if you want to get it for cheap, all you have to do is find the original landowner or their next of kin, and buy it from them. They don’t even have to stick around. They can pop up, take a quick five K for prime Brooklyn real estate, and then return to wherever it is they’ve been lurking for years.”

I’m no longer moving on the elliptical, just glaring down at the smug asshole standing in front of me and also kicking myself. “You saying this is a scam?”

“People might call it that, but no one can prove anything. Or maybe they don’t want to prove anything.” He shrugs. “You know how it goes.”

I stare at him.

“Oh, you don’t? Okay, I’ll play along.”

I hate this feeling, of someone dangling a threat in front of me and not just getting to the part where I can either hit them before they hit me, or run. “Did you want something?”

“I know you need money. And a place to stay.”

I should be surprised, but it seems Kim told multiple people that I was a bum and she was going to leave me. Why not the realtor?

“I can’t make you do anything, but you need to really think about your future here. Don’t let your pride, or your penis, get in the way of getting paid, bro. Call me.”

He holds up an imaginary cell phone beside his ear, then changes it to a thumbs-up pushed in my direction, and then walks off toward the weight-lifting room.

I stand there, sweating and trying to connect two pieces of information that I really hope are not connected. Anyone could have taken an interest in the garden, right?

I clamber off the elliptical, shower quickly, and jog back out into the gross humidity.

When I get to the community garden, it looks like one of the old pictures of Brooklyn I’d seen, back when the empty lots were used as garbage dumps. All the plants have been ripped up. The benches and flower boxes and planter pots are in a pile against the wall of the adjacent building. Bits of chewed-up-looking leaves spot the ground with green, and absolute dread fills me.

I think about Sydney’s voice cracking when she talked about not being able to maintain the garden. How over the last few days, she’s wilted like the plants she tried so fruitlessly to keep alive. How earlier today she sent me away because I was a bumbling idiot who didn’t understand how things worked around here.

She must be wrecked right now.

I suck in a deep breath and head to her front door. As I get to the bottom step, something sharp grazes the back of my ankle and tugs at my shoe. I turn to find Terry viciously tugging at his dog’s leash.

“Toby, you little bastard!” He tugs hard again. His face is screwed up with anger, like the dog being a little monster is someone else’s fault and not his.

“Hey, Terry,” I say out of reflexive politeness even though his dog just sank its teeth into the foam of my New Balances. He looks up at me, his gaze jumping back and forth between me and Sydney’s door. He grins.

“I knew it.”

This is a weird way of saying Sorry my untrained dog bit you.

“I told Josie that you needed to just get this out of your system and then you’d be able to think straight. Even if you and Kim don’t work out, it’d be a shame if our numbers went down. We have an apartment for rent, you know.”

“Okay.” I scratch my head and start turning to head up the stairs.

Two Black guys walk slowly across the street and Toby surges forward, barking like he wants to take a chunk out of them. Terry loosens the leash instead of pulling it back, and the men decide to walk in the street. Terry nods his chin toward Sydney’s door again.

“Look, just go get it out of your system. Don’t worry, we’ve all had that phase. Hell, Josie and I still travel down to the Caribbean every year to scratch that itch, though now that we live here . . . well, you clearly understand the convenience.”

“What?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.

He inclines his head toward the house. “Is she any good? I mean, that mouth looks like it could suck the shellac off a—”

I drop my duffel bag to the ground, though the strap is still loosely between my fingers. “Watch what you say next, man.”

Another thing I’d worked on while trying to fit in with Kim’s life was my temper, but my limits are being tested hard today.

“Hey, hey, I was just being neighborly, no need to get touchy. Have fun!”

He trots up the stairs with his dog.

After taking a minute to get my anger whack-a-moled back into its proper place, I ring the doorbell to Sydney’s apartment a couple of times.

No answer. Maybe I should just leave. But I’ve seen her crying alone in her apartment as life in the neighborhood went on around her too many times. She’d never invited Drea down, or gone to Mr. Perkins or Ms. Candace. Sydney always tries to soldier through alone—maybe she needs someone to come barging in, to know that someone cares enough to try, even if it is the annoying neighbor from across the street.

I ring the doorbell one more time, telling myself that if she doesn’t come out, I’ll go home. The better to peep into her window and make sure she’s okay.

There’s the sound of a dead bolt unlocking down the hall and then a sliver of light expands into a diffused glow, and Sydney steps into the hall. Her braids are in a sloppy ponytail on the side of her head and she’s wearing old basketball shorts and a white tank top.

She’s walking slowly, hesitantly, and I can see the surprise in her face when she makes out it’s me.

Surprise, but not disappointment.

She opens the door halfway and says, “Hi,” with a voice that sounds like a bruise.

“I just heard what happened,” I say. “To the garden. Are you okay?”

She pushes past me a little to look back and forth down the street, and she’s warm and smells like some kind of vanilla-laced pastry and cigarettes. Sweet and bitter. The scent lingers as she pulls back. “Come in.”

“Huh?”

“Come in,” she says with an edge of annoyance that reassures me.

She closes the door after me and locks both locks, then pads past me and moves through the hallway toward her apartment. I follow, the scent of cigarette smoke growing stronger the closer I get to the door.

When I get inside the apartment, she repeats her closing and locking routine, jerkily tugging at the doorknob afterward as if checking the sturdiness of the locks.

“You’re alone?”

“Yes. Drea isn’t answering my calls. Mr. Perkins isn’t answering either, even though the block party is only a couple days away. Ms. Candace tried to come in, but I—I couldn’t talk to her.” She plods to the kitchen table and picks up the cigarette that sits balanced on the edge of a white ceramic ashtray with Coney Island written in tiny starfish along the side.

Sydney smokes like the femme fatale pacing the hapless detective’s office in a noir film. She stares into the distance with unfocused pain in her eyes, lifting the cigarette to her mouth in a smooth arc and closing her lips around it, something that doesn’t seem practiced or contrived given her current state.

I’m reminded that even though they stink and cause cancer, a cigarette is sexy as hell in the right hands.

“Did you see the garden?” she asks on the exhale, then rolls her bottom lip with her teeth.

“Yeah.”

“How bad is it?”

“It’s bad.” I try to break this as gently as I can while not giving her even a smidgen of hope. “They ripped up all the plots and piled up all the wood and other stuff. The garden is gone.”

She sits down at the kitchen table—more like her legs give out and she slumps into the chair that was already pulled out. Tears well up in her eyes and her hand is shaking when she raises the cigarette this time.

“Sydney?”

She inhales and tears slip over her cheeks, suddenly, as if she’s been just holding them back this whole time. She doesn’t sob or make any sound, just sucks at that cigarette, then reaches for a napkin from the holder in the middle of the table and wipes roughly at her face as she sniffles.

“Fuck, I’m tired.”

“You’ve mentioned that.” I pull out a chair next to her at the table. “Tell me what’s going on, Sydney. Or if you don’t want to, just tell me what you need right now.”