As a Chicagoan, I despise the Chicago River. To me, it’s a filthy cesspool with a long memory. I’m convinced there are still bodies down there from the Prohibition era, secrets wrapped in bones and silence.

Meanwhile, people hop on boat tours every summer, skinning and grinning like the water didn’t just finish whispering threats. I watch them sip cocktails and wave at building when I’m on the train, and all I can think is: couldn’t be me.