Nancy marched ahead, leading like she owned the road. I followed two steps behind, where the air felt safer.
“Near the shops,” I muttered, testing the words again.
Nancy didn’t look back. “Mm-hm.”
A memory flickered in my head: fourth grade, sticky hands, construction paper, Nancy’s voice turning the street into a horror movie trailer. Thugs. Motorcycles. Trash up to her ankles. As if ankles were the official unit of measurement for danger.
"If we survive this without getting mugged by a drunk guy, i'll eat my hat," I muttered.
"I wouldn't say that if I were you," Nancy scoffed, gesturing to my bonnet cap. "That looks like an awfully nice hat."
Just after Nancy said that, a WHOOSH decided to flash over. That "whoosh!" being caused by none other than a whiny police siren, flashing red and blue, most likely pushing the speed limit.
"Sure..." I reply.
We hadn’t even reached the corner.
Nancy walked like this was a field trip. Nancy smiled.
And that’s when I noticed the sign on the pole we were passing—half ripped, sun-faded, but still readable.
NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH: If you see something, say something.
Nancy didn’t look at it.
I did.
The whole block felt like a place people pretended not to see, even when they drove past it every day.
“Nance,” I said, low. “Can we… not?”
She made a sound that could’ve been a laugh or a sigh. “We’re literally just visiting. Like tourists. With trauma.”
“Tourists take pictures and buy keychains,” I muttered. “We’re taking emotional damage and buying panic.”
She waved a hand like my fear was a mosquito she could shoo away. “Come on. We’ve done this before.”
“Yeah,” I said, swallowing. “In fourth grade, when ‘visiting’ meant standing at the edge and letting you describe trash in ankle-units.”
Nancy rolled her eyes and stepped forward anyway, and I stepped with her because my legs, traitors that they were, apparently liked living on the edge of a bad decision.
We walked a few more steps.
That’s when I saw him.
At first I thought he was just sitting near the wall—an old man shaped like a question mark, hunched low where the shade touched the bricks. His hair was thin and gray, his clothes the color of old dust. He didn’t look like the “thugs” Nancy had promised me in fourth grade.
He looked like somebody’s grandpa who’d been left behind.
Nancy didn’t notice him. She was still walking like she owned the street.
I slowed.
His head lifted.
His eyes found ours.
And then—very slowly, like his bones were arguing with him—he started moving.
Not standing.
Crawling.
His hands pressed to the sidewalk with a soft slap, dragging the rest of him forward. One knee scraped. His breathing sounded like sandpaper. He wasn’t fast, but the intent in his movement made my skin tighten.
Toward us.
“Nancy,” I whispered.
She kept walking.
“Nancy,” I said again, louder this time, because my voice had finally decided to be useful.
She turned, annoyed. “What?”
I pointed.
Her eyes followed my finger.
The old man crawled closer.
For a second, Nancy’s face went blank—like her brain had to reboot.
Then the old man opened his mouth.
Something came out, but it was garbled, swallowed by his own breath. It might’ve been a word. It might’ve been a warning. It might’ve been help.
“Okay,” Nancy said, voice suddenly tight. “Nope.”
“What do you mean, nope?” I squeaked, even as my feet were already backing up.
“I mean,” she said, grabbing my wrist, “we have decided this neighborhood is—”
“Uninhabitable?” I offered.
“—not our vibe.” Nancy’s grip tightened.
And then we did the most mature, brave, character-developing thing you could do when you're almost in seventh grade.
We ran.
Not a jog. Not a dignified retreat.
We ran like the sidewalk had teeth.
Nancy yanked me around the corner so fast my bonnet nearly launched into another zip code. I stumbled, caught myself, and kept going because humiliation was a small price to pay for not being within crawling distance of a stranger.
Behind us, I didn’t look.
I didn’t want to know if he was still coming.
I didn’t want to know if he’d only needed directions.
I didn’t want to know anything except the fact that my lungs were burning and Nancy was muttering, “Holy crap, holy crap,” like she’d just remembered she was, in fact, mortal.
We didn’t stop until we were back on the “safe” side of the corner, where the air felt like it belonged to us again.
After a second, Nancy lifted her head.
“So,” she panted.
I glared at her.
She blinked innocently.
“…Still want character development?”
ns216.73.217.115da2
and then Add to home screen.