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So we talk—me leanin’ on a lamppost, her smokin’ a fag. “Memory is a curse,” I say, nickin’ from the movie. She nods, like she gets it. Life’s beaten her down, but she’s still kickin’. I exagerate in my head—she’s a femme fatale, playin’ me like a fiddle. Ha! As if. Truth is, she’s just tryin’ to eat.

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We get a call about a fire on Via Garibaldi. I’m like, “Great, just what I needed.” So, I hop in the truck, and we’re zooming through the streets. I can see the smoke from a mile away. It’s like a scene from a movie, but not the good kind.

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