In Rena’s garden, beside the leaning fence, grew a tree as tall as the house was long. With silvery bark and pale, thin leaves, it sheltered summer flowers and watched them sleep through winter.
Melinda’s appointment is at 2 p.m., but she’s been waiting here since noon. “Just jitters,” she explains as I take a seat on the plush, architectural sofa opposite hers.
She stands motionless on the dance floor, surrounded by ravers who paid to get into this warehouse—her home—for a party that’ll help cover next month’s rent.