A woman is trying to get me off her lawn. Her black beehive wig towers over me, a hostile ice cream cone. She tried shutting the gate, but I am already on the inside. We don’t want your kind here, she hisses. I have a message for your daughter, I say, warding off the blows of her pocketbook, my hands bloody. In the top story window, a hairless girl watches me. She chews slowly on the lace curtain. I don’t have a daughter, the woman shouts again. I know the girl is watching me, waiting to see what I’ll do next.