I reach the sidewalk on the same side of the street as The Promise, and I turn right, away from the flophouse. I want to run, I want to jink left and right to make myself a tougher target in case a laser spot is already painting the back of my neck. But instead I keep to the same steady stride. When I reach the intersection—a fragging eternity later, every moment of which I’m expecting the smashing impact of a round to the head—I turn left. The moment I’m around the corner, I flatten myself against the wall of the building and I let the trembling in my hands run its course.