I’m standing halfway down the block, smoking a cigarette, when I see the coyotes. I know the landlords know I smoke, and they’ve never said anything about it, but sometimes the wife landlord does this shallow cough thing when she sees me, and I’m never sure if she’s being passive-aggressive or just has a scratchy throat, so I always move down the sidewalk in front of that house that’s never finished being built. This is the first time I’ve seen coyotes up close, and I’m surprised that I can identify them right away and don’t just think they are regular skinny dogs. There are three of them, padding down the middle of the street in a V formation. They hear me exhale and stop, and the one at the top of the V—the leader, probably, because it’s the thickest and has the fewest chunks missing from its ears—seems to sort ...