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I lay back down and stayed there, excruciatingly aware of the crescent moon slicing the jagged rooftops across the street until sunrise. It was then that I heard José tiptoe down the stairs. He paused at the edge of the couch, seemingly surprised to find my eyes open. He complained that he hadn’t slept, then went to the kitchen cupboard, jammed the Chinese fighting knives into the waistband of his jeans, and headed for the front door.

I knew José was lying when he claimed he was “funna bus it home, back to the crib to get a clean ’fit.” Even after a terrible night, his Enyce shirt was nicely pressed, and his jeans still held the pleats he had ironed in the day before.

I insisted on driving him home.

As we glided silently to Sibley Manor, it was increasingly clear to me that José was about to make a life-altering mistake. When we arrived outside his building, he tried to slip away quickly. “Alright then, dawg,” he said, pulling the door handle.

“Are you coming back?” I asked.

He pulled his leg inside, clicked the door shut, and spoke with surprising directness. “The people I’m from, we use violence to settle things. It’s just the way it is. What we know.”