Godforsaken because I’ve never seen a shadier, more depressing street. Most of the lights have been busted out, with the exception of one tangerine colored bulb that flickers about half a block up. In the spotlight below, a mangy cat licks its paw. “Where the hell are we?” “You don’t recognize it?” He spares me a glance. “I suppose your friends don’t tell you all their secrets.” “Don’t imply that you’re the god of truth.” He gestures with his wrapped hands toward the building directly in front of us, its front door busted in on its hinges. I peek inside and hear people talking. A closer look reveals a small huddle of bewildered tenants clustered together. “What’s going on?” I ask him. I don’t like the wide eyes of the woman holding a baby in her arms. “We’re too late,” he says and grabs on to me. The world disappears for a heartbeat, and we step into a room. The kitchen table is overturned and the bed has some crumpled sheets on it, as if someone had just woken up.
