Last night, a third stranger followed me home. It was about 11 pm. I got off the train to see two dogs tied to the pole at the bottom of the stairs, barking their heads off. I retraced my footsteps, took a different route; began the walk to my apartment a little rattled by the break in my routine. I felt the air rasp at the top of my throat. I just bought a house down the block, he said. Rattled, and now tongue-paralyzed, I simply blinked at him.

That girl with the novel. Madness, I tell you, she is mad. Are we bullies, even in the tiniest of ways? And i.