Every Dark Corner

1: The Man in the Alley

"Stop, thief!" The words echo through the station, causing tourists to turn their heads and pat their fanny packs, making sure they are not the victims. 

I dart through them, muttering, "'Scuse me, sorry." A woman in a ridiculous sunhat and Bermuda shorts -- this is Brooklyn, lady, not Disney World, and it's 40 degrees outside -- mumbles disapprovingly as I squeeze by. Maybe if you and your well-fed son would get out the way, I wouldn't have to shove you. 

"Gotcha," a cop growled, and I freeze in my tracks. Turning ever so slowly, legs still tensed to run, I see that the security guard has grabbed the sun-hat lady's son, who's wearing the same Brooklyn Dodgers cap. Lucky me. 

Slipping my cap off my head and tucking it into my windbreaker, I crouch down behind an empty ticket counter to watch the rest of the ordeal. Sun-hat lady is screaming now -- "Get! Off! My! Son!" -- each yell punctuated by the slap of her Michael Kors tote against the back of the annoyed cop.

"Stop! I'm sorry! I'm - stop hitting me, goddammit!" He finally shakes her off and beckons for his fellow officers -- who seem to be having trouble containing their laughter -- to follow. They walk right past my hiding spot, the lead guard barking out a lecture about the nature of "backup."

Once they're out of sight, I move the opposite direction, out of the station and into the alley outside. Making sure the dumpster is my only company, I turn my back to the street and remove my loot from my jacket pockets. Two bucks and half a sandwich. Not bad. 

I go for the sandwich immediately. I'm not typically a pastrami and rye kind of girl, but hunger'll make you forget those kinds of things. 

"Aren't you gonna share?" a voice suddenly purrs in my ear. I spin around, and somehow the sandwich in my hand is replaced by my old switchblade. A tall preppy young man with combed black hair, a navy blue blazer, and crazy-white teeth grins at me in an oddly friendly way that is in no way appropriate for a conversation with a stranger in a filthy alley. Chuckling, he says, "Whoa, calm down before you hurt yourself. Do you even know how to use that thing?" 

More confident than I feel -- I mean, this guy is really out of place, so what is it he wants with me? -- I shoot back, "Would you care to find out?"

The next moment he is a blur, moving so fast I can't even register what's happening. Less than a second later, when my eyes finally settle on him again, he is twirling my knife around his fingers, my Dodgers cap perched on his head. 

"What the..." I begin, but he interrupts me with a bow. I take an involuntary step back as he places the knife in the cap and extends them out to me. Not as fast as he had moved -- but I swear, the adrenaline was working in me by now -- I snatch my belongings back, feeling only the slightest bit comforted as the weight of the knife is back in my hand. 

Rising from his bow, the young man says, "Ryker Landon Vandergrifft, at your service." I'm not sure what kind of services he's talking about, but before I can find out, he -- Ryker -- smiles at me once more and backs out of the alley, maintaining uncomfortable eye contact until he reaches the sidewalk, where he seems to vanish -- literally -- into the group of people walking by.

With weak, trembling hands, I flipped the blade closed on the first, second, third try and tuck it into my back pocket. Staring forlornly at the remnants of my lunch, which sit in a filthy puddle at my feet, I whisper to no one in particular (unless there's another strange disappearing man somewhere in this alley), "Rowan. My name is Rowan Zorah Abernathy." Shaking my head to clear it -- I must be hallucinating, that's what happens when you're really hungry, right? -- I begin the trudge home, shushing my grumbling stomach and shooing away the images of the odd encounter in the alley.