38Horseshoe Bay, BermudaSimon and Horne were not in the best neighborhood. That much was obvious as they ran full-tilt through the alleys and back streets near the garage.
Dark-skinned people in shabby clothing milled on curbs and stoops, watching with interest as Simon and Horne ran past. Children played among litter and debris, carrying things that were on fire. Dogs barked all around, and sullen, mangy cats staggered from shadow to shadow. The houses, so well-tended elsewhere on the island, were run-down, rife with peeling paint and crumbled masonry and overgrown weeds and graffiti. The smells of highly-spiced food being cooked intermingled with the sweet stench of rotting garbage and the occasional stink of raw feces.
If there could possibly be a part of Bermuda where an uprisin
