She pulls in to the parking lot, which is nestled between the three buildings. She is someone’s older sister, but not yours; she is a friend. All four of you are going to the same show. It isn’t until after she pulls the e-brake that you notice the barriers up around the one building. You intended to enter there, to go down into the subway and ride to the club from there. (You’re only here for its convenient and free parking; never mind that it’s a sketchy neighborhood.) You don’t know this city well at all and suggest turning around, looking for somewhere else to park, for somewhere else to get on the subway. But your two friends do know the city well, and laugh off your suggestion. The subway (they explain) is on a pretty predictable grid and it is easier to park here and walk up or down a block or two to catch the train at the next stop. So you follow them up to and around the barrier; through the alley and out onto the street on the other side. (Your female companion disappears, vanishes into the city air.) You follow them for two blocks before they duck into a swanky-looking hotel. “There’s a subway station in the basement,” they explain. “They can’t keep us out.” And then they stop in the hotel bar. And promptly order a glass of Scotch each. You linger a moment longer, delaying your order, reviewing the selection. Your friends had quickly gone for an easy-to-recognize name. But tucked back behind a couple of other bottles is something precious and rare. And the bartender notices you noticing it and provides you with a generous pour after you speak its name correctly. (Though he jokes that you must like drinking diesel.) When you join your friends at the table, they admire your drink (you hadn’t even known they liked Scotch, to say nothing of being connoisseurs) and seem jealous and quickly switch the topic to how soon the train will arrive.