You turn that corner and you know. You see them. Maybe first maybe not but you know it’s too late to turn around. Sudden movements seem unwise so you dig your hands deeper into your jacket pockets. Tighten your shoulders, put your head down and keep walking.

There’s about four of them hacking butts and standing around the back of a sedan in the dark lot behind the Shoppers. Might be a bag on the trunk, a couple of king cans silhouetted there too. One of them turns to you. A tiny dagger of ice picks at your chest. They turn away and blow out a cone of smoke that hangs in the vague light from a street light at the end of the alley.

Margot used to say that the alleys were the best way to get anywhere in the city. Day or night. Avoid the people that you don’t want to see. The shoppers, the strollers, the weekend vacationers in their Patagonia fleece. Those folks had places to go, schedules, dinner dates, and cars that functioned more than half the time.

Cars were unreliable but the alleys were always there for you.

The tiny dagger of ice in your chest begins to relent as you pass by the group. You hear the crunch of an aluminum can and a voice separates itself from murmur but you can’t tell if it’s directed at you and you choose not to look up.

You see the route. Over the hedge and across the lawn that surrounds the tall building that is apparently a long term care clinic. If you’re in luck the stoplights at the corner will be with you and you can get to the other side and into the dark there before they have a chance to catch you.

One move from any of them and you’re gone. | image @b.oeriksson