The Interrupted Path

The Green Line trolley rattled down Commonwealth Avenue with more echo than weight in the chilly night. At Allston Street I stepped out into a roadway stripped of its usual daytime hustle. Nothing moved. The street held a hush of deep meditation.

I crossed the tracks and headed down Allston, a route I knew in my sleep. The narrow road linked two busy arteries of the city, but at that late hour it felt forgotten. Only my footsteps and the light tapping of my cane broke the stillness. The buildings at the corners rose like sentries. To my left Ringer Park stretched behind its long metal fence, its trees little more than shapes stirring in the wind.

After dark, the park became a place neighbors avoided, its benches and walkways swallowed by shadows. At times a quiet rustle of footsteps hinted at strangers moving through the dark. Drug deals passed silently along the shortcut to my deadend street. Yet I felt oddly calm. I had walked this path almost every day for a year at Boston College. Familiarity settles even the most unsettling places.

I was almost past the corner buildings when something shifted in the night. A low voice cut through the dark.

Stop.

The word slid into the quiet like a blade. The night pressed close. I felt like hunted prey. Blindness magnifies uncertainty: every sound a threat I could not see, every silence a trap I could not measure. My cane made my vulnerability obvious. But none of that mattered. The voice was meant for me. And the silence that followed settled like a warning.

I stayed still as the seconds stretched until they felt like a lifetime. I waited, exposed, for whatever might follow. Nothing did.

Confusion and annoyance slowly pushed through the fear. I shifted my weight, ready to move.

Stop.

The command came again. I halted, trapped in the silence. The cold air clung to my skin like static. The night seemed to lean in, listening for what might happen next.

My calm unraveled. I had to get to safety. Steeling myself, I stepped off the sidewalk into the street. The street was emptier, but emptiness could be its own danger. I chose it anyway. My cane tapped a steady, solitary rhythm as I pressed on towards home. I braced for the sudden rush of footsteps. It never came.

As I passed the place where the voice had been, the air shifted. A sharp, sour odor of alcohol drifted toward me. The voice returned, softer now, slurred.

Stop.

A woman's voice. She pressed herself close to the wall, barely coherent. I could not tell whether she was dangerous or simply lost inside her intoxication. The air around us carried the city's harsher undercurrents.

My legs carried me forward. I wanted to run, but tripping or losing orientation could leave me more at risk. Fear changed shape with every step. I listened for her footsteps. None came.

At the park entrance, I turned in. The trees closed around me with deeper quiet. My mind juggled the danger behind me with the known threat ahead. Off to the side was the corner where dealers gathered. Months earlier I had reached them before they heard me. A gun clicked ready, a whispered alarm, a spike of dread. Then a murmur of recognition. Their acceptance was thin as paper; one wrong move could tear it. They let me pass. A local blind student going home was no concern.

That night my nerves were taut. I tried to steady my breathing, careful not to slow enough for the woman to catch up. I did not know how she and the dealers might react to each other. I only knew I needed the path to remain open.

The corner was quiet. No one stepped out. No voice challenged me. The silence felt like acknowledgment. I walked through the shadows, sensing unseen eyes that chose not to intervene.

At the far side of the park, no footsteps trailed behind me. No sound rose from the path. The street beyond was still. I reached my building, opened the door with a shaky hand, and slipped inside quickly, my panic receding into its own echo.

The fear lingered. I thought about the woman on the street, drunk or distressed or stranded inside her own night. Perhaps her single word had not been a command but a plea. She was still out there, exposed. Then I halted again, listening to the silence. My wife was already asleep. I stood in the dark apartment a moment longer, then I called 911 and told them where the woman might be. A few minutes later I heard hurried footsteps out on the pavement. The police had arrived, and I heard the quick scattering of footsteps into the back streets.

The hush returned. The night folded in on itself like a held breath, both unfinished and complete.