I moved into the neighborhood three weeks after my husband passed. It wasn’t by choice—it was what I could afford after the bills and the medical debt consumed everything else. The rent was cheap. Too cheap. It did not take long to understand why.
Loud music at night. Shouting matches on the sidewalk. Cars speeding through stop signs as if they did not exist. I’d observe it all from my window with the blinds barely open, clutching my tea as if it could provide protection.
When I finally summoned the courage to walk to the corner store, I went during the day, hoping it would be safer. I made it there and back with my small cloth bags, but halfway home my knees began to falter. I had to pause and catch my breath on the sidewalk.
That’s when I saw him.
A large man. Tall. Muscular. Tattoos adorned both arms, wearing a sleeveless shirt and sneakers the size of small boats. He crossed the street toward me—rapidly.
My stomach lurched.
I clutched my bag tighter and attempted not to appear afraid, but I know I failed.
“Are you well, ma’am?” he inquired, his voice gentle but deep.
I hesitated. Then, for some reason, I spoke the truth. “I do not feel safe here.”