“My lungs strained, but not from the exertion of pushing the dumpster. It was light work with the four new companions I had made in the street, whose names I did not know and would not learn. It was the tear gas, clawing at my throat. I had already washed my eyes and mouth out two or three times, and my drenched scarf was now frozen to my icicle-laden beard, my cheeks numb but tingling with chemical irritants. We pushed through the smoke. We expected to catch up with the armored car and riot squad, which kept falling back.
