17
DAWN
The address where Claude met Narimi for his cloaking-abracadabra bullshit is in one of the neighborhoods worst hit by hurricane Katrina so many years ago. The other neighborhoods out this way boast at least some semblance of life — a rusty bicycle or two, the occasional dog, a car parked in the driveway of a house with or without windows. But I see no streetlights, no bikes, no animals. I don’t see a single car outside of our Malibu. This is surely why Narimi chose it. Here, there are still more boarded windows than there are glass, the plywood stained with neon graffiti, most of it names. The names of people who once lived here.
People who died here.
Hopefully, Narimi will be next to die. I see him in my head, that divot in his skull, my mother’s blood on his teeth. My fingers
