Days later, the agent informs us the man is fine. Dread, replaced by relief, revolts, switches to anger.
"He appeared from nowhere," I say, blaming him.
Fear festers, tension mounts. Huddled in the passenger seat, I holler "watch it, she's crossing." No one's there. PTSD they say.
We're moving. Away from the city. Away from our dreams of a year ago.