The evening is mild but unusually dark. Living, as I do, amid the stuttering bedlam of a popular bar neighborhood, I am unaccustomed to the soft darkness of a residential area after 10, even if it only lasts for a few short blocks. Behind me, a streetlamp casts a flaxen puddle that is more salutation than safeguard, and a stoplight shifts mutely from yellow to red, offering direction to a lone, empty bus. On the block, a single living room window floats in the ice-blue current of late-night TV; the rest are dark and dormant, preparing for the workday. I don't know what I expect here, but I walk up and down the quiet street nonetheless. On my second pass, I notice the boarded-up windows of a derelict storefront. The old sign hanging overhead says something like "Nisilobaid," which means nothing to me, but I peer through the gated entryway and notice a black dot painted on the door. Above the dot are the words "You... More >>>