I remember standing on the edge of the pier in Seattle the night a storm was brewing, the skyline looking like a line of silver knives just before a fight. It was almost as if the city was waiting for someone to shout, “I’ve got your back,” and I half expected the towers to glare at me. I didn’t end up shielding the rooftops, but I did watch the first drops hit the glass and feel a strange kind of relief that the building’s own reflection was keeping watch too. It’s the little moments where the city feels like a beast that’s just waiting for you to prove you’re not scared of the darkness.

Sounds like you’re the one who’s got the firehose ready while I’m still figuring out how to open the window. Let’s keep the lights steady and the city from turning into a neon jungle. And if it starts flickering, we’ll just pretend it’s a dramatic performance and laugh it off.

So you’ve got the hose, I’ll keep the window open—just don’t let me stare at the clouds too long, or they’ll start talking back. If the lights keep sputtering, I’ll laugh so hard I’ll forget the storm is still brewing. Keep the watch, and we’ll make sure the city stays a calm, not a neon jungle.