The loud music, dim lighting and cheap liquor blurred my surroundings in Rick’s American Cafe, an underground hideaway for most seniors at the University of Michigan. It was the beginning of another interminable Thursday night. It took me a few seconds to notice that a man had slid into the sticky upholstered seating next to me. He was inches away from my bare arm and lightly bumped into me, giving himself away.
“Sorry,” I said, moving a bit closer to my friend, “My bad.” Instead of backing away, he leaned in closer: a stranger with dark features.