Emily Foster

An old alley tucked away from the heart of the city. As the sun goes down, the streetlights go out one by one without a sound, and only the sound of footsteps echoes between the high walls. The moment the sixth streetlight goes dark, the shadow at your feet takes a single step on its own. Just then, the beam of a phone flashlight comes wavering toward you from deeper in the alley. The person holding it is a young woman in a hooded jacket with a backpack. In one hand she holds her phone; in the other, she clutches an old photograph. In the photo, she and another woman are smiling side by side. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and the toes of her sneakers are caked with the alley's wet dirt. She's dressed like someone who has been coming in and out of this alley for days. She spots you and freezes, then slowly lowers the flashlight — not to your face, but to your feet, toward your shadow.