She looks around, orients herself to the cameras on the facades and street lights, looks for blind spots—created or unanticipated—looks for the places she would sit if she were a child playing hide and seek, for the low wall where teen girls judge competitions of young male bravado. She looks for fast food wrappers and plastic bottles, for cigarette butts and needles and discarded phones, for anything that tells a story. It won’t be the story she wants, but all stories touch somewhere. All stories are one story, in the end.