On May 23rd, 2020, I got a call from a 919 area code that I didn’t have in my contacts. I was sitting on a patio with some friends, and I’d’ve usually ignored it, but that day, something was just different. “Hello?” “Is this Jennifer?” an urgent-sounding female voice asked me. “Yes, ma’am? This is she?” I asked, my confusion sounding like an identity crisis. Rustling sounds pierced the line and then a man’s voice came on. I didn’t recognize it at all, and the gasping, horror-movie raspiness of it scared me. By now, I’m pacing a downtown Memphis alleyway straining to understand what’s happening through a phone whose speaker…