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I saunter up, tip my hat, all cool-like. “Evenin’, miss,” I say, voice smooth as whiskey. She smirks, like, “What’s a bailiff want with me?” I’m thinkin’, *“Maybe we’re just pretending to live,”*—another *Yi Yi* gem. Ain’t that the truth? We’re all playin’ parts down here. I ask her rate—straight up, no bullshit. She says, “Ten bucks, mister, take it or scram.” I laugh, loud and deep—ten bucks in 1800s coin? That’s a damn fortune! Surprised me, her guts did. Gotta respect the hustle.

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I gotta mention, though, there’s a weird side too. Some nights, the silence down by the abandoned warehouses on Industrial Road gets creeper. The wind whistles, and I swear I hear “I’m not who you think I am…” echoing around. Spooky stuff that makes me wanna double-check the locks. But hey, that’s Calverton for ya: unpredictable, raw, all of it a part of its charm.

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