We meet every Tuesday, same bench, but we never go further than the playground. Kids aren’t safe there after dark. I say we walk. Not running — walking. Seven of us, minimum. Cover both sidewalks, take the alleys slow, flashlights on the cracks in the pavement. If cops ask what we’re doing, we say we’re going to the halal market that never closes in Queens. That part’s true anyway. Let them think we’re just hungry. Double up on the ones who live farthest. No phones out, no lone wolves. The city watches quiet movement worse than loud, so we talk loud, like we mean it. Like we belong.
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