Once, I knocked on a neighbor’s door after he made wild, angry gestures from his porch. I had done the gross misdeed of using his driveway in order to back a tow trailer into mine. I parked, checked myself in the rearview mirror, walked across the street, and knocked. He looked shocked to see me standing in front of him. I held my hand out, made an introduction, then apologized. “It’s alright,” he stammered. All traces of upset left his eyes. “It’s an insurance thing.” Then, softly, “I get it. It’s hard with this narrow street.” We never spoke again, but I stopped worrying about the space I needed to take up, and I think he stopped worrying about his driveway. I think of this moment when I’m convinced my silence will keep the peace, when I’m afraid of the animal of the world. I imagine a car window, rolled all the way up, a face without a mouth behind it. I picture the too-sharp turn of the wheel, the tall hedges shaking from impact. I see the deep scratch on metal like a scar. No, the body keeps saying. There is another story. And I climb out of the place that poses as refuge, and I begin to tell it.