Through the dense fog, Gunnar saw a lone old man stand in the middle of a deserted street, berating a fearsome wall of police. Then the helmeted officers began charging, firing a hail of bullets. Gunnar dove behind a car. His pants split. He couldn’t tell if the police were firing high or if the old man had been hit. He was a block from his apartment, but he couldn’t get home. He ducked into a shop, where eight people were hiding among the safety of bolts of cloth. “Take those off,” said the shop owner, a tailor, pointing to Gunnar’s pants. “I’ll sew them for you.”