Dinner that night was at The Firehouse, which turned out to be a moderately ritzy restaurant in what used to be a firehouse. There were old pictures and photographs of fire engines and firemen on the walls, a brass pole, etc. We sat down at a table upstairs just fifteen minutes before the kitchen was due to close, which may be why the meal was so unsatisfying. My pork chops were inedible, tasting faintly like a wet dog smells. I gave up afte rthree bits and sat quietly, hoping violent nausea and perhaps a trip to the emergency room wasn’t in the offing. Michael’s “Southern Fried Chicken”” was awash in a tomato sauce. The baby was fractious. J. stood up and swung her in his arms, which calmed the infant but bothered S, who said he was rocking her too quickly.

We were all so relieved at the end of the meal we hurried out without dessert and forgot to ask J and S for directions back to the hotel. As a result, we drove through a terrible part of town, a dark Gehenna with littered streets lit yellowly by streetlights. I glimpsed an obese woman raising herself on one elbow as she relinced on a sidewalk in fron to fan empty shopfront, a young man hobbling quickly along the pavement with one foot in a cast, black figures silhouetted in the windows of brick walls overlooking the street.