I follow Tony out of the Pine Hills district all the way to North Albany to an old brick apartment complex that looks more like the dorms at Harvard or Brown University. My grandmother kept a semi-studio apartment here before she died. By semi-studio, I mean, she had a bedroom, a living room, and a small galley kitchen. The old brick buildings surround a large quad with an immaculate lawn, or green, accented with old oak trees. My mother used to drop me off here for the day, and I’d play on the lawn while Gram would make us a picnic lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches which we munched on while sitting on an old cotton blanket. Simple times, long before Everest took everything over.
Tony parks in the small lot in front of building number eight. I pull up beside him in an empty spac
