Last night I had a dream, after reading “I Left my Heart in Skaftafell” and Playing in the Dark for the umpteenth time, that I was almost robbed. Not quite. I was living in a tiny apartment/restaurant probably in West Philly and my mom had been sober for eleven days because there was a calendar and I was hiding her from someone. I was hiding myself from her and from someone too. I heard a noise outside and stepped out in tattered Adidas flip flops and another black boy my age had shattered the windshield of my car and was stealing it. I drew my own gun and stepped in front of the car hoping that he would stop, but he didn’t. I shot him two times in the chest. My flip flop ripped and I got glass in my foot. I hopped into the house and my mother was still asleep. I took a nap alongside her. When I woke up, I looked out the window and saw two boys staring at the car and the boy inside. I assumed they were police investigating the scene. I was going to come clean. I left my gun inside and walked out to tell the story. The two people were not cops, or they were, but they were also two more black boys and they had guns in their hands too, but they were much bigger than me and I tugged on their arms, tapped their shoulders trying to get their attention and explain and they raised their guns to the boy in the car. He was not dead, but getting up and then he said, “That’s him, that’s that niggas brother who shot me.” And the boy from the car in a bloody white T aimed his gun at me in the same way that the first person who ever pointed a gun at me did, as a form of capture. And I responded in the same way as I did that first time. I ran back into the house and never came back out. Never went back to sleep.