Life shifts into the streets with no more public interiors—kids cluster on corners listening to hip-hop, folks pull down their masks to yell to each other along blocks, and a whiff of anarchy scents the otherwise mild bourgeois airs of Evanston on a holiday weekend. People bump into each other with six or two or no feet of air between them and spin away again like pinballs. The young inherit the empty center and leave the leafy expensive fringes to us, the ones who are supposed to know better. A stiff breeze pushes a forlorn wild mask down the street.