In RECKLESS, my characters finally get out of Portland, at least some of the time. Goat Hill Farm and the Central Office live entirely in my imagination, but many Portland scenes are inspired by real-life locations, some of which are shared below. RECKLESS has the bonus of getting its very own theme song! I am a huge Amy Shark fan and she released her single C'MON while I was deep in final edits. I picture Alex dedicating this song to KJ, and when I saw the song's video was filmed in a space that looks remarkably like the squat where Alex and her friends shelter in UNLEASHED, the coincidence was too perfect not to share.
The night smells like diesel and hums with quiet. To our right are a handful of long-haul trucks, their slumbering forms blocked from the freeway by a stand of tall pines. To our left, empty parking spots face a low concrete building. A sign hung near the door proclaims men over the blue-and-white image of a person in a wheelchair. There’s a soda machine next the building and a display of maps and tourist information. I can’t read the notices from here, but if we’re in the right place, they’ll be telling us about the wonders of Oregon’s Columbia River Gorge.
Their offices are on the twenty-seventh floor of a very tall, grayish-pink building on the north end of downtown. 
The studio occupies a windowless concrete building that takes up an entire city block. KJ and I circle around to the back, then idle with false casualness until the area is empty and we can duck behind some cars so I can stop time. We yank on various doors, looking for a way inside. The one off the parking lot is locked, but there’s another door tucked in an alcove that opens, revealing a small lobby.
It's a stand-alone one-story structure next to an aging office building with a prominent for rent sign. We reach it a little before five. KJ pushes the crosswalk button, and I chew my bitter-tasting nails and study our target while we wait for the light. The store’s windows are plastered with posters depicting album covers. On the roof, a huge white billboard announces, We Pay Cash for Any and All Used Vinyl, CDs, and DVDs. Pretending to be curious about the rest of the store’s inventory, I turn in place and search the premises. Each section has a black-and-white sign hanging over it, identifying a musical category: rock, R & B, classical, pop. There’s another staff person stocking records in one of the bins at the far end of the store and a handful of customers roaming the aisles.
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For comparison, here are pictures I took from inside the "real" squat.
Two hours later, we’re standing on a tennis court at Irving Park, a place full of wide-open fields that we decided were perfect for meetings where you don’t want anyone to sneak up behind you. 
We settle on a public plaza a block away. It’s mostly brick with raised planters and is empty of visitors, except for a man curled up on a bench in a dingy sleeping bag. KJ and I find a second bench tucked between a lamppost and a large blue bike storage locker. I check my watch again. 
We get to police headquarters at nine fifteen. It’s a high-rise in the middle of downtown with police cars parked nose-to-end all along the block in front of it. The words justice center are etched in the concrete over the entrance.
Without moving my head, I shift my gaze to the wall where the two pictures hang. Both are old-looking, vaguely religious, and framed in gilt. The one on the left shows a bearded man wearing draped fabric, sitting on a throne, holding a scythe in his left hand and an hourglass in his right. Chronos, presumably—their namesake, the god of time. The second painting also shows Chronos, but in this one, his scythe hovers over a boy who’s resting in his lap, a very young boy with a pair of wings sprouting from his back. A winged baby. A cherub.
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