People said Lo had come from nowhere and everywhere, stitched together from late-night bodega conversations and bus-stop confessions. He carried the zip of the city in his pockets — not a zip code but a zipper of zipped-up stories, each pull revealing another layer: a girl named Tasha who could cook beans like sermons, a kid named Malik who could draw maps to places that didn’t yet exist, an old man who read newspapers like prayer books and knew every alley’s history.