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So we talk—me leanin’ on a lamppost, her smokin’ a fag. “Memory is a curse,” I say, nickin’ from the movie. She nods, like she gets it. Life’s beaten her down, but she’s still kickin’. I exagerate in my head—she’s a femme fatale, playin’ me like a fiddle. Ha! As if. Truth is, she’s just tryin’ to eat.

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Turns out, there’s been a break-in at a shop on Kiyokawa Street. I grab my gear and head out. The streets are buzzin’ with people, and I’m dodgin’ folks like I’m in a video game. I finally get to the shop, and it’s a mess. Glass everywhere, like a scene from a horror flick.

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