CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Adnan was waiting for me on my front porch.
Normally, when I step onto my front porch, I hear crickets and birdsong, see the swaying sycamore oak trees on my block, and maybe see a car or two passing by. My street had a certain way about it that I had grown used to for forty-seven years. The first thing I saw from my front door was my neighbor Ant'ny's porch across the street. He had two wicker chairs that we often sat in as we mused about the wild and wacky ways of our neighborhood.
Problem was, I didn't see Ant'ny's porch. I didn't see the same trees I was used to seeing. Instead, my house was on a different block. The houses looked familiar—the same turn-of-the-twentieth century style with colorful brick, three stories, dormer windows, and an occasional stained-glass
