In Shahbagh, a group of friends sat at a tea stall on an otherwise unremarkable evening on April 10, somewhere between the rhythms of the city and the anticipatory hum of Pahela Baishakh. They were not doing anything that could be described as public controversy. They were, by all available accounts, simply there. Visible, perhaps in ways that rendered them legible to others as something else. That, it turns out, was sufficient.