Sweet old man in a tweed cap soft shoes, soft brown skin, says, Do you need a cab? Yes I say and my heart is laughing; this is how I get sometimes. You look like my second grade teacher Mrs. Richmond, I always loved Mrs. Richmond, he says. He ushers me to a silver Lexus. This is not a cab. This is a bait and switch. Behind the wheel, the driver, 300 pounds of muscle arms like hams a diamond ring on each pinky a diamond in each earlobe a red baseball cap backward. I think a piece of his ear is missing. I think he has a tattoo on his face. Our eyes meet in the rear view mirror Clang, clang, goes my danger meter Don’t get in the car! says everyone. So…I get in the car. By 45th and Locust, turns out his name is Steve. Turns out he buried his younger sister this year and his mom, the year before. She was way too easy on his brother with cerebral palsy— 51 years old and doesn’t like to get out of bed! I read him a poem about my daughter, from my book. And then he wants to remember my name, and gets out a tiny pencil to write it down.