I feel like a painting hung on a museum wall. Everyone’s staring. The small crowd outside of my apartment: they’re all watching, leaning back, putting their hands near their mouths and speculating on the meaning of it all. At least, that’s what I guess they’re doing.

The concrete slab between my apartment and my neighbor’s feels crowded, holding me and my landlord and a man who says he is from the police department. He says it just like that: I’m from the police department.

The skirt I’m wearing makes me feel exposed, like a bug walking along a windshield, exposing its underside. All the things better left unseen. I pull at the sleeves of my sweater until only the tips of my fingers are exposed and hunch my shoulders, trying to shield m...

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