Dad always parked his car way on the other side of the street, past the balck asphalt and closer to the row of violet flowers that dotted a neighbor’s fence– an unlucky neighbor, probably, to have only been able to snag a home right next to the busiest street in the neighborhood. The one that loops past that old bus stop stained with graffiti and under the bridge with the train Mom never lets me take. It’s unsafe, she always says. Too many people. Too many bad people. ​Did you know, there was a kid who went missing on Friday? Did you know that on Thursday there was a shooting across the street, right at Target? ​ That Target? ​Yes, that Target. ​The one I bought glue from last Tuesday? ​Yes. Last Tuesday. That Target. It’s not safe enough, Aila. It’s not safe enough. Everything’s unsafe to my parents. I think it’s stupid. I wish they’d stop lecturing me about safety– what do they think I’m going to do, start talking to strangers? I take the bus now, anyway. It’s not like I have another choice. But there was a time where we didn’t take the bus. There was a time– okay, I’ll stop talking like I’ve been around since the ‘30s. This was six years ago. I was seven– or maybe six. I don’t remember at this point. My brother Max and I always raced to the car to see who’d get there first. He’d take one path, I’d take the other, and we’d meet up, panting, by the pot of purple flowers. Then, sometimes in the winter, the car window would be all fogged up; back then, I used to think fairies brought the dew overnight. And usually it’d clear up by noon. When ​I ​ got to the car first, I’d squeak my finger over the cold glass, drawing a smiley face on the car window. But my smile would be even bigger than the one on the window when Max reached me, panting, his eyes wide with mock fury. I always took the left path. It was ​my ​path. Never mind that I usually lost. But today, Max wanted a change. “Take right,” he hissed. “No,” I protested. “I get left.” He glared at me. “It’s not fair. You always get left.” “Too bad,” I replied, running to the left. Suddenly, Dad appeared. “Let Max take left,” he said sternly to me, and I groaned, trudging reluctantly to the right. “Ready, set, go!” Max screamed from the other end. I started running, running, catching the wind before losing it again. I could see my hand-me-down sneakers hitting the pavement; my shoelaces got tangled and untied but I didn’t care. I had to win. Suddenly, I found myself running almost headlong into an old woman. She opened her mouth. I stood there impatiently, trying to get around her. But she took up the entirety of the narrow walkway. “Are you lost?” she said in a kind voice. I didn’t care how kind her voice was. She was in my way. I had to go. I had to win. “Are you lost?” she repeated. My mind was still racing around her. “You’re in my way!” I yelled back, feeling guilty but running past her nonetheless as she moved to the right every so slightly. I lost to Max that day. I was mad, mad, mad. All I ever wanted was to win. I saw the old woman again every so often. She lived just a few houses down from us. I felt bad when I saw her. So I avoided her. When she had a garage sale, I didn’t go. Max did. He bought me a keychain which I attached to my backpack. It’s still there. And then, suddenly, it was yesterday. I was doing my homework at the kitchen table, the old one Mom bought at Ikea probably some thirty years ago, the one I swear I’ll be the one to replace. So I was doing my homework– okay, I wasn’t really doing my homework, but I was kind of doing my homework. Like, I was stuck on this same problem for way way way too long. The numbers sort of blurred before my eyes. I was mad because I couldn’t get it. So all I was really thinking was ​mad mad mad ​while I stared at my textbook, when suddenly I looked up and saw a flash of red and yellow from the parking lot. “Hey, Mom, what’s that?” I asked. She didn’t answer. I sighed and went over to the screen door. Slid it open. I could hear the street. Cars, rushing, but closer, there were voices. Voices. I walked out. The lights– it was an ambulance. I’d never seen one up close like this before. I stood, enthralled, until I saw the ambulance guys run into a house. A house. It was that house. Her house. The one with the yellow on the outside, the ugly cactus shells grinning absurdly through the window. I gasped. It was her. Her, in the stretcher. The old woman. I didn’t even know her name. Stumbling, blinded, towards her fence, I felt sick. I could recall myself. Hear my stupid words, all those years ago. ​You’re in my way. ​I was stupid. So stupid. Trying to get through, all I’d ever wanted was to win. I didn’t care now. I don’t care anymore. I could have talked to her. I could have known her. But I didn’t. I ran past. I didn’t see time. I didn’t know it had an end. Aila, ​my mother said today, ​our neighbor is dead. You remember her? The old woman who lived in the yellow house? You knew her, right? Yes, I remembered her. I placed my hand on the old keychain. I’d taken it down yesterday; ripped it from the mesh pocket of my backpack. It was hers, not mine. I felt guilty. I remember the house. The cactus shells. The searching look in those dark eyes. But I didn’t know her. I still don’t know her. I don’t even know her name.