The Speed of Dark

CHAPTER SEVEN

I am facing my second opponent. It feels very different the second time because it is not all a surprise. This man was wearing the hat like a pizza with feathers. Now he is wearing a mask that’s transparent in front rather than wire mesh. This kind costs a lot more. Tom told me he is very good but very fair. He will count my touches, Tom said. I can see the man’s expression clearly; he looks almost sleepy, his eyelids drooping over blue eyes.

The referee drops his handkerchief; my opponent leaps forward in a blur and I feel his touch on my shoulder. I raise my hand. His sleepy expression does not mean he is slow. I want to ask Tom what to do. I do not look around; the bout is still on and the man could make another touch.

This time I move sideways and the man also circles; his blade leaps out, so fast it seems to disappear and then reappear touching my chest. I do not know how he moves so fast; I feel stiff and clumsy. I will lose with another touch. I rush into attack, though it feels strange. I feel my blade against his — I have parried successfully this time. Again, again — and finally, when I lunge, I feel in my hand that I have touched something. Instantly he draws back and raises his hand. “Yes,” he says. I look at his face. He is smiling. He does not mind that I made a touch.

We circle the other way, blades flashing. I begin to see that his pattern, while rapid, is understandable, but he gets a third touch on me before I can use these data.

“Thanks,” he says, at the end. “You gave me a fight.”

“Good job, Lou,” Tom says when I come out of the ring. “He’ll probably win the tournament; he usually does.”

“I got one touch,” I say.

“Yes, and a good one. And you almost got him several more times.”

“Is it over?” I ask.

“Not quite,” Tom says. “You’ve lost only one bout; now you go into the pool of other one-rounders, and you’ll have at least one more match. Are you doing all right?”

“Yes,” I say. I am breathless and tired of the noise and movement, but I am not as ready to go home as I was earlier. I wonder if Don was watching; I do not see him anywhere.

“Want some lunch?” Tom asks.

I shake my head. I want to find a quiet place to sit down.

Tom leads me through the crowd. Several people I do not know grab my hand or slap my shoulder and say, “Good fighting.” I wish they would not touch me, but I know they are being friendly.

Lucia and a woman I do not know are sitting under a tree. Lucia pats the ground. I know that means “sit here,” and I sit down.

“Gunther won, but Lou got a touch on him,” Tom says.

The odaer woman claps her hands. “That’s very good,” she says. “Almost nobody gets a touch on Gunther their first bout.”

“It was not actually my first bout, but my first bout with Gunther,” I say.

“That’s what I meant,” she says. She is taller than Lucia and heavier; she is wearing a fancy costume with a long skirt. She has a little frame in her hands, and her fingers work back and forth. She is weaving a narrow strip of material, a geometric pattern of brown and white. The pattern is simple, but I have never seen anyone weave before and I watch carefully until I am sure how she does it, how she makes the brown pattern change direction.

“Tom told me about Don,” Lucia says, glancing at me. I feel cold suddenly. I do not want to remember how angry he was. “Are you all right?” she asks.

“I am all right,” I say.

“Don, the boy wonder?” the other woman asks Lucia.

Lucia makes a face. “Yes. He can be a real jerk sometimes.”

“What was it this time?” the other woman asks.

Lucia glances at me. “Oh — just the usual kind of thing. Big mouthitis.”

I am glad she does not explain. I do not think he is as bad as Tom must have said. It makes me unhappy to think of Tom not being fair to someone.

Tom comes back and tells me that I have another match at 1:45. “It’s another first-timer,” he says. “He lost his first bout early this morning. You should eat something.” He hands me a bun with meat in it. It smells all right. I am hungry. When I take a bite, it tastes good, and I eat it all.

An old man stops to talk to Tom. Tom stands up; I do not know if I should stand up, too. Something about the man catches my eye. He twitches. He talks very fast, too. I do not know what he is talking about — people I do not know, places I have not been.

In my third match, my opponent is wearing all black with red trimming. He also has one of the transparent plastic masks. He has dark hair and eyes and very pale skin; he has long sideburns trimmed to points. He does not move well, though. He is slow and not very strong. He does not carry through his attacks; he jerks his blade back and forth without coming close. I make a touch that he does not call and then a harder touch that he does. His face shows his feelings; he is both alarmed and angry. Even though I am tired, I know I can win if I want to.

It is not right to make people angry, but I would like to win. I move around him; he turns slowly, stiffly. I make another touch. His lower lip sticks out; his forehead stands up in ridges. It is not right to make people feel stupid. I slow down, but he does not make use of this. His pattern is very simple, as if he knew only two parries and attacks. When I move closer, he moves back. But standing still and exchanging blows is boring. I want him to do something. When he does not, I disengage from one of his weak parries and strike past it. His face contracts in anger, and he says a string of bad words. I know I am supposed to shake his hand and say thank you, but he has already walked off. The referee shrugs.

“Good for you,” Tom says. “I saw you slow down and give him a chance for an honorable hit… too bad the idiot didn’t know what to do with it. Now you know why I don’t like my students getting into tournaments too early. He wasn’t nearly ready.”

He was not nearly ready. Nearly ready would be almost ready. He was not ready at all.

When I go to report my win, I find that I am now in a pool of those who have a 2:1 record. Only eight are undefeated. I am feeling very tired now, but I do not want to disappoint Tom, so I do not withdraw. My next match comes almost at once, with a tall dark woman. She wears a plain costume in dark blue and a conventional wire-front mask. She is not at all like the last man; she attacks instantly and after a few exchanges she gets the first touch. I get the second, she the third, and I the fourth. Her pattern is not easy to see. I hear voices from the margins; people are saying it is a good fight. I am feeling light again, and I am happy. Then I feel her blade on my chest and the bout is over. I do not mind. I am tired and sweaty; I can smell myself.

“Good fight!” she says, and clasps my arm.

“Thank you,” I say.

Tom is pleased with me; I can tell by his grin. Lucia is there, too; I did not see her come and watch. They are arm in arm; I feel even happier. “Let’s see where this puts you in the rankings,” he says.

“Rankings?”

“All the fencers will be ranked by their results,” he says. “Novices get a separate rank. I expect you did fairly well. There are still some to go, but I think all the first-timers have finished by now.”

I did not know this. When we look at the big chart, my name is number nineteen, but down in the lower right-hand corner, where seven first-time fencers are listed, my name is at the top. “Thought so,” Tom says. “Claudia—” One of the women writing names on the board turns around. “Are all the first-timers finished?”

“Yes — is this Lou Arrendale?” She glances at me.

“Yes,” I say. “I am Lou Arrendale.”

“You did really well for a first-timer,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Here’s your medal,” she says, reaching under the table and pulling out a little leather sack with something in it. “Or you can wait and get it at the award ceremony.” I did not know I would get a medal; I thought only the person who won all the fights got a medal.

“We have to get back,” Tom says.

“Well, then — here it is.” She hands it to me. It feels like real leather. “Good luck next time.”

“Thank you,” I say.

I do not know if I am supposed to open the sack, but Tom says, “Let’s see…” and I take out the medal. It is a round piece of metal with a sword design molded into it and a little hole near the edge. I put it back in the bag.

On the way home, I replay each match in my mind. I can remember all of it and can even slow down the way Gunther moved, so that next time — I am surprised to know that there will be a next time, that I want to do this again — I can do better against him.

I begin to understand why Tom thought this would be good for me if I have to fight Mr. Crenshaw. I went where no one knew me and competed as a normal person would. I did not need to win the tournament to know that I had accomplished something.

When I get home, I take off the sweaty clothes Lucia loaned me. She said not to wash them, because they are special; she said to hang them up and bring them over to their house on Wednesday, when I come to fencing class. I do not like the way they smell; I would like to take them back tonight or tomorrow, but she said Wednesday. I hang them over the back of the couch in the living room while I shower.

The hot water feels very good; I can see little blue marks showing from some of the touches against me. I take a long shower, until I feel completely clean, and then put on the softest sweatshirt and sweatpants I have. I feel very sleepy, but I need to see what the others e-mailed me about their talk.

I have e-mails from Cameron and Bailey both. Cameron says they talked but didn’t decide anything. Bailey says who came — everyone but me and Linda — and that they asked a counselor at the Center what the rules were on human experimentation. He says Cameron made it sound like we had heard about this treatment and we wanted to try it. The counselor is supposed to find out more about the laws involved. I go to bed early.

On Monday and Tuesday, we hear nothing more from Mr. Crenshaw or the company. Maybe the people who would do the treatment are not ready to try it on humans. Maybe Mr. Crenshaw has to argue them into it. I wish we knew more. I feel the way I felt standing in the ring before that first match. Not-knowing definitely seems faster than knowing.

I look again at the abstract of the journal article on-line, but I still do not understand most of the words. Even when I look them up, I still do not understand what the treatment actually does and how it does it. I am not supposed to understand it. It is not my field.

But it is my brain and my life. I want to understand it. When I first began to fence, I did not understand that, either. I did not know why I had to hold the foil a certain way or why my feet had to be pointed out from each other at an angle. I did not know any of the terms or any of the moves. I did not expect to be good at fencing; I thought my autism would get in the way, and at first it did. Now I have been in a tournament with normal people. I didn’t win, but I did better than other first-timers.

Maybe I can learn more about the brain than I know now. I do not know if there will be time, but I can try.

On Wednesday, I take the costume clothes back to Tom and Lucia’s. They are dry now and do not smell so bad, but I can still smell the sourness of my sweat. Lucia takes the clothes, and I go through the house to the equipment room. Tom is already in the backyard; I pick up my equipment and go out. It is chilly but still, no breeze. He is stretching, and I start stretching, too. I was stiff on Sunday and Monday, but now I am not stiff and only one bruise is still sore.

Marjory comes out into the yard.

“I was telling Marjory how well you did at the tournament,” Lucia says, from behind her. Marjory is grinning at me.

“I didn’t win,” I say. “I made mistakes.”

“You won two matches,” Lucia says, “and the novice medal. You didn’t make that many mistakes.”

I do not know how many mistakes “that many” would be. If she means “too many,” why does she say “that many”?

Here, in this backyard, I’m remembering Don and how angry he was at what Tom said about him rather than the light feeling I had when I won those two matches. Will he come tonight? Will he be angry with me? I think I should mention him, and then I think I shouldn’t.

“Simon was impressed,” Tom says. He is sitting up now, rubbing his blade with sandpaper to smooth out the nicks. I feel my blade and do not find any new nicks. “The referee, I mean; we’ve known each other for years. He really liked the way you handled yourself when that fellow didn’t call hits.”

“You said that was what to do,” I say.

“Yeah, well, not everybody follows my advice,” Tom says. “Tell me now — several days later — was it more fun or more bother?”

I had not thought of the tournament as fun, but I had not thought of it as bother, either.

“Or something else entirely?” Marjory says.

“Something else entirely,” I say. “I did not think it was bother; you told me what to do to prepare, Tom, and I did that. I did not think of it as fun, but a test, a challenge.”

“Did you enjoy it at all?” Tom asked.

“Yes. Parts of it very much.” I do not know how to describe the mixture of feelings. “I enjoy doing new things sometimes,” I say.

Someone is opening the gate. Don. I feel a sudden tension in the yard.

“Hi,” he says. His voice is tight.

I smile at him, but he does not smile back.

“Hi, Don,” Tom says.

Lucia says nothing. Marjory nods to him.

“I’ll just get my stuff,” he says, and goes into the house.

Lucia looks at Tom; he shrugs. Marjory comes up to me.

“Want a bout?” she asks. “I can’t stay late tonight. Work.”

“Sure,” I say. I feel light again.

Now that I have fenced in the tournament, I feel very relaxed fencing here. I do not think about Don; I think only about Marjory’s blade. Again I have the feeling that touching her blade is almost like touching her — that I can feel, through the steel, her every movement, even her mood. I want this to last; I slow a little, prolonging the contact, not making touches I could make so that we can keep this going. It is a very different feeling from the tournament, but light is the only word I can think of to describe it.

Finally she backs up; she is breathing hard. “That was fun, Lou, but you’ve worn me out. I’ll have to take a breather.”

“Thank you,” I say.

We sit down side by side, both breathing hard. I time my breaths to hers. It feels good to do that.

Suddenly Don comes out of the equipment room, carrying his blades in one hand, his mask in the other. He glares at me and walks around the corner of the house, stiff-legged. Tom follows him out and shrugs, spreading his hands.

“I tried to talk him out of it,” he says to Lucia. “He still thinks I insulted him on purpose at the tournament. And he only placed twentieth, behind Lou. Right now it’s all my fault, and he’s going to study with Gunther.”

“That won’t last long,” Lucia says. She stretches out her legs. “He won’t put up with the discipline.”

“It is because of me?” I ask.

“It is because the world does not arrange itself to suit him,” Tom says. “I give him a couple of weeks before he’s back, pretending nothing has happened.”

“And you’ll let him back?” Lucia says with an edge to her voice.

Tom shrugs again. “If he behaves, sure. People do grow, Lucia.”

“Crookedly, some of them,” she says.

Then Max and Susan and Cindy and the others arrive in a bunch and they all speak to me. I did not see them at the tournament, but they all saw me. I feel embarrassed that I didn’t notice, but Max explains.

“We were trying to stay out of your way, so you could concentrate. You only want one or two people talking to you at a time like that,” he says. That would make sense if other people also had trouble concentrating. I did not know they thought that way; I thought they wanted lots of people around all the time.

Maybe if the things I was told about myself were not all correct, the things I was told about normal people were also not all correct.

I fence with Max and then Cindy and sit down next to Marjory until she says she has to go. I carry her bag out to her car for her. I would like to spend more time with her, but I am not sure how to do it. If I met someone like Marjory — someone I liked — at a tournament, and she did not know I was autistic, would it be easier to ask that person out to dinner? What would that person say? What would Marjory say if I asked her? I stand beside the car after she gets in and wish I had already said the words and was waiting for her answer. Emmy’s angry voice rings in my head. I do not believe she is right; I do not believe that Marjory sees me only as my diagnosis, as a possible research subject. But I do not not believe it enough to ask her out to dinner. I open my mouth and no words come out: silence is there before sound, faster than I can form the thought.

Marjory is looking at me; I am suddenly cold and stiff with shyness. “Good night,” I say.

“Good-bye,” she says. “See you next week.” She turns on the engine; I back away.

When I get back to the yard, I sit beside Lucia. “If a person asks a person to dinner,” I say, “then if the person who is asked does not want to go, is there any way to tell before the person who is asking asks?”

She does not answer for a time I think is over forty seconds. Then she says, “If a person is acting friendly toward a person, that person will not mind being asked but still might not want to go. Or might have something else to do that night.” She pauses again. “Have you ever asked someone out to dinner, Lou?”

“No,” I say. “Not except people I work with. They are like me. That is different.”

“Indeed it is,” she says. “Are you thinking of asking someone to dinner?”

My throat closes. I cannot say anything, but Lucia does not keep asking. She waits.

“I am thinking of asking Marjory,” I say at last, in a soft voice. “But I do not want to bother her.”

“I don’t think she’d be bothered, Lou,” Lucia says. “I don’t know if she’d come, but I don’t think she would be upset at all by your asking.”

At home and that night in bed I think of Marjory sitting across a table from me, eating. I have seen things like this in videos. I do not feel ready to do it yet.

Thursday morning I come out the door of my apartment and look across the lot to my car. It looks strange. All four tires are splayed out on the pavement. I do not understand. I bought those tires only a few months ago. I always check the air pressure when I buy gas, and I bought gas three days ago. I do not know why they are flat. I have only one spare, and even though I have a foot pump in the car, I know that I cannot pump up three tires fast enough. I will be late for work. Mr. Crenshaw will be angry. Sweat is trickling down my ribs already.

“What happened, buddy?” It is Danny Bryce, the policeman who lives here.

“My tires are flat,” I say. “I don’t know why. I checked the air yesterday.”

He comes closer. He is in uniform; he smells like mint and lemon, and his uniform smells like a laundry. His shoes are very shiny. He has a name tag on his uniform shirt that says DANNY BRYCE in little black letters on silver.

“Somebody slashed ’em,” he says. He sounds serious but not angry.

“Slashed them?” I have read about this, but it has never happened to me. “Why?”

“Mischief,” he says, leaning over to look. “Yup. Definitely a vandal.”

He looks at the other cars. I look, too. None of them have flat tires, except for one tire of the old flatbed trailer that belongs to the apartment building owner, and it has been flat for a long time. It looks gray, not black. “And yours is the only one. Who’s mad at you?”

“Nobody is mad at me yet. I haven’t seen anyone today yet. Mr. Crenshaw is going to be mad at me,” I say. “I am going to be late for work.”

“Just tell him what happened,” he says.

Mr. Crenshaw will be angry anyway, I think, but I do not say that. Do not argue with a policeman.

“I’ll call this in for you,” he says. “They’ll send someone out—”

“I have to go to work,” I say. I can feel myself sweating more and more. I can’t think what to do first. I don’t know the transit schedule, though I do know where the stop is. I need to find a schedule. I should call the office, but I don’t know if anyone will be there yet.

“You really should report this,” he says. His face has sagged down, a serious expression. “Surely you can call your boss and let him know…”

I do not know Mr. Crenshaw’s extension at work. I think if I call him he will just yell at me. “I will call him afterward,” I say.

It takes only sixteen minutes before a police car arrives. Danny Bryce stays with me instead of going to work. He does not say much, but I feel better with him there. When the police car arrives, a man wearing tan slacks and a brown sports coat gets out of the car. He does not have a name tag. Mr. Bryce walks over to the car, and I hear the other man call him Dan.

Mr. Bryce and the officer who came are talking; their eyes glance toward me and then away. What is Mr. Bryce saying about me? I feel cold; it is hard to focus my vision. When they start walking toward me, they seem to move in little jumps, as if the light were hopping.

“Lou, this is Officer Stacy,” Mr. Bryce says, smiling at me. I look at the other man. He is shorter than Mr. Bryce and thinner; he has sleek black hair that smells of something oily and sweet.

“My name is Lou Arrendale,” I say. My voice sounds odd, the way it sounds when I am scared.

“When did you last see your car before this morning?” he asks.

“Nine forty-seven last night,” I tell him. “I am sure because I looked at my watch.”

He glances at me, then enters something on his handcomp.

“Do you park in the same spot every time?”

“Usually,” I say. “The parking places aren’t numbered, and sometimes someone else is there when I get home from work.”

“You got home from work at nine” — he glances down at his handcomp — “forty-seven last night?”

“No, sir,” I say. “I got home from work at five fifty-two, and then I went—” I don’t want to say “to my fencing class.” What if he thinks there is something wrong with fencing? With me fencing? “To a friend’s house,” I say instead.

“Is this someone you visit often?”

“Yes. Every week.”

“Were there other people there?”

Of course there were other people there. Why would I go visit someone if nobody but me was there? “My friends who live in that house were there,” I say. “And some people who do not live in that house.”

He blinks and looks briefly at Mr. Bryce. I do not know what that look means. “Ah… do you know these other people? Who didn’t live in the house? Was it a party?”

Too many questions. I do not know which to answer first. These other people? Does he meant the people at Tom and Lucia’s who were not Tom and Lucia? Who didn’t live in the house? Most people did not live in that house… do not live in that house. Out of the billions of people in the world, only two people live in that house and that is… less than one-millionth of one percent.

“It was not a party,” I say, because that is the easiest question to answer.

“I know you go out every Wednesday night,” Mr. Bryce says. ‘Sometimes you’re carrying a duffel bag — I thought maybe you went to a gym.“

If they talk to Tom or Lucia, they will find out about the fencing. I will have to tell them now. “It is… it is a fencing… fencing class,” I say. I hate it when I stutter or maze.

“Fencing? I’ve never seen you with blades,” Mr. Bryce says. He sounds surprised and also interested.

“I — I keep my things at their house,” I say. “They are my instructors. I do not want to have things like that in my car or in my apartment.”

“So — you went to a friend’s house for a fencing class,” the other policeman says. “And you’ve been doing it — how long?”

“Five years,” I say.

“So anyone who wanted to mess with your car would know that? Would know where you were on Wednesday nights?”

“Maybe…” I don’t think that, really. I think someone who wanted to damage my car would know where I lived, not where I went when I went out.

“You get along with these people okay?” the officer asks.

“Yes.” I think it is a silly question; I would not keep going for five years if they weren’t nice people.

“We’ll need a name and contact number.”

I give him Tom’s and Lucia’s names and their primary contact number. I do not understand why he needs that, because the car was not damaged at Tom and Lucia’s house, but here.

“Probably just vandals,” the officer says. “This neighborhood’s been quiet for a while, but over across Broadway there’ve been a lot of tire slashings and broken windshields. Some kid decided it was getting hot over there and came over here. Something could’ve scared him before he did more than yours.” He turned to Mr. Bryce. “Let me know if anything else happens, okay?”

“Sure.”

The officer’s handcomp buzzes and extrudes a slip of paper. “Here you are — report, case number, investigating officer, everything you need for your insurance claim.” He hands me the paper. I feel stupid; I have no idea what to do with it. He turns away.

Mr. Bryce looks at me. “Lou, do you know who to call about the tires?”

“No…” I am more worried about work than about the tires. If I do not have a car, I can ride public transit, but if I lose the job because I am late again, I will have nothing.

“You need to contact your insurance company, and you need to get someone to replace those tires.”

Replacing the tires will be expensive. I do not know how I can drive the car to the auto center on four flat tires.

“You want some help?”

I want the day to be some other day, when I am in my car and driving to work on time. I do not know what to say; I want help only because I do not know what to do. I would like to know what to do so that I do not need help.

“If you haven’t had to file an insurance claim before, it can be confusing. But I don’t want to butt in where you don’t want me.” Mr. Bryce’s expression is one I do not completely understand. Part of his face looks a little sad, but part looks a little angry.

“I have never filed an insurance claim,” I say. “I need to learn how to file an insurance claim if I am supposed to file one now.”

“Let’s go up to your apartment and log on,” he says. “I can guide you through it.”

For a moment I cannot move or speak. Someone come to my apartment? Into my private space? But I need to know what to do. He knows what I should do. He is trying to help. I did not expect him to do that.

I start toward the apartment building without saying anything else. After a few steps I remember that I should have said something. Mr. Bryce is still standing beside my car. “That is nice,” I say. I do not think that is the right thing to say, but Mr. Bryce seems to understand it, for he follows me.

My hands are trembling as I unlock the apartment door. All the serenity that I have created here disappears into the walls, out the windows, and the place is full of tension and fear. I turn on my home system and toggle it quickly to the company ’net. The sound comes up with the Mozart I left on last night, and I turn it down. I need the music, but I do not know what he will think of it.

“Nice place,” Mr. Bryce says from behind me. I jump a little, even though I know he is there. He moves to the side, where I can see him. That is a little better. He leans closer. “Now what you need to do is—”

“Tell my supervisor I am late,” I say. “I have to do that first.”

I have to look up Mr. Aldrin’s E-mail on the company Web site. I have not ever e-mailed him from outside before. I do not know how to explain, so I put it very plain:

I am late because my car’s tires were all cut and flat this morning, and the police came. I will come as fast as I can.

Mr. Bryce does not look at the screen while I’m typing; that is good. I toggle back to the public ’net. “I told him,” I say.

“Okay, then, what you need to do now is file with your insurance company. If you have a local agent, start there — either the agent or the company or both will have a site.”

I am already searching. I do not have a local agent. The company site comes up, and I quickly navigate through “client services,”, “auto policies,” and “new claims” to find a form on-screen.

“You’re good at that,” Mr. Bryce says. His voice has the lift that means he is surprised.

“It is very clear,” I say. I enter my name and address, pull in my policy number from my personal files, enter the date, and mark the “yes” box for “adverse incident reported to police?”

Other blanks I do not understand. “That’s the police incident report number,” Mr. Bryce says, pointing to one line on the slip of paper I was given. “And that’s the investigating officer’s code number, which you enter there, and his name here.” I notice that he does not explain what I have figured out on my own. He seems to understand what I can and cannot follow. I write “in your own words” an account of what happened, which I did not see. I parked my car at night, and in the morning all four tires were flat. Mr. Bryce says that is enough.

After I file the insurance claim, I have to find someone to work on the tires.

“I can’t tell you who to call,” Mr. Bryce says. “We had a mess about that last year, and people accused the police of getting kickbacks from service outlets.” I do not know what “kickback” is. Ms. Tomasz, the apartment manager, stops me on my way back downstairs to say that she knows someone who can do it. She gives me a contact number. I do not know how she knows what happened but Mr. Bryce does not seem surprised that she knows. He acts like this is normal. Could she have heard us talking in the parking lot? That thought makes me feel uncomfortable.

“And I’ll give you a ride to the transit station,” Mr. Bryce says. “Or I’ll be late for work myself.”

I did not know that he did not drive to work every day. It is kind of him to give me a ride. He is acting like a friend. “Thank you, Mr. Bryce,” I say.

He shakes his head. “I told you before: call me Danny, Lou. We’re neighbors.”

“Thank you, Danny,” I say.

He smiles at me, gives a quick nod, and unlocks the doors of his car. His car is very clean inside, like mine but without the fleece on the seat. He turns on his sound system; it is loud and bumpy and makes my insides quiver. I do not like it, but I like not having to walk to the transit station.

The station and the shuttle are both crowded and noisy. It is hard to stay calm and focus enough to read the signs that tell me what ticket to buy and at which gate to stand in line.