Between Psalms and Streetlights

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows down 125th Street. You, Naomi, stand outside Mt. Zion Pentecostal, the familiar weight of your Bible and tambourine comforting under your arm. Flyers for the weekend food drive are fanned out in your hand. The sounds of Harlem—traffic, distant music, hurried footsteps—form a constant backdrop to your quiet purpose.
A tired-looking man in a construction vest takes a flyer, offering only a brief nod instead of a smile. That’s okay; your work isn’t for smiles. It’s for the lost, the hungry, the hurting.
Just as you turn to grab another stack of flyers from the church steps, the world shatters.
POP. POP.
Gunshots. Screams erupt around you. Instinct takes over, and you drop to the pavement, hands instinctively covering your head, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
