I wake to dark clouds on the western horizon, late August. I get up, brush my hair, and I’m next door at the deli for a big iced coffee and two eggs on a roll. The Albanian expats behind the counter have become my best friends. Back at this apartment, which is not a home, I drink all the coffee, like it’s a dangerous drug, and take my dog for a walk. She shits on the pristine sidewalks. I kick it into the street. Locals give me the stink eye. We walk down a steep hill, parallel to the Bronx River Parkway to the east, and a village of tall Tudor apartment houses to the west. It’s a tiny urban valley, with gorgeous emerald lawns and signs that say, keep off the grass. The only people I see down there are the workers who trim the trees and weed the flower gardens.