There was a sharp rap on the door, followed by a muffled but unmistakable command from a voice outside in the hallway.”We want the white guy, just the white guy. We know he’s in there. He comes out now and there’s no trouble for anyone later.”I was the “white guy.” I knew in that instant that my family’s desperate search to track me down had ended at this decayed two-story apartment in a violent pocket of Atlanta’s inner city. Terrified, I rushed around the room, trying to warn the other crack heads to sit still and keep quiet.

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