“Please wake up,” he was saying softly. “Please.” “What is it?” I asked, reluctant to open my eyes. It was as though I’d fallen asleep only seconds ago. “Something’s going on.” Sallow, watery light was draining in through the window. It must have been a little past dawn. “Listen,” Martin whispered. From outside came the unmistakable murmur of voices, doors opening, footsteps. That would have been normal on any weekday, but it was Saturday. Martin waved me over to the window. “Come and look.” My body was still sore and stiff. When my feet touched the floor, each muscle ached with the renewed burden of carrying my own weight. I struggled to the window where Martin was waiting. He had pulled over a chair and was kneeling on top of it. “See,” he said. “Something must have happened.” Third was a flurry of activity. Women in their robes and nightdresses were standing in the alley or on each other’s stoops, clutching their clothes tightly to keep warm while whispering to one another and pointing toward the far end of Third.
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