I avoided looking at newspapers, as if by avoiding them I could ignore what was happening outside of my cozy new world. “The worst thing that can happen,” Santos once told me, “is losing your squat.” “Getting kicked out by the police?” The thought made me shudder. “Or worse. Getting the shit kicked out of you by someone taking over—if that happens, you’re fucked. You lose your house, you lose your stuff, and if you’re really lucky, you only lose an eye.” I pondered this. “No shit. I had this friend . . . anyway, he lost an eye, and it wasn’t pretty. Bled all over the place . . .” He laughed, but underneath, I could sense the threat—that all of this could evaporate and leave us scarred for life. After our coffee, Creed and I cautiously climbed out of the squat together. It was getting colder at night, now that it was late September. A layer of frost surrounded the entrance. Even though I hadn’t come in or out of the house by myself yet, I still looked around each time.
