I’M NOT GIVING YOU A CHANCE

As we rode in the car toward Flávia’s house, Fred tried to edge closer to me. I pressed myself as far into the corner of the seat as I could, pinned against the door, doing everything possible to keep him from touching me.

The driver kept his eyes on the traffic, pretending we weren’t there. He was discreet—that was clearly why he still had the job. In the end, it felt as though Fred and I were alone.

“Tell me about Jimi,” he said out of nowhere. “What ...