CHAPTER 34
On Saturday, June 15th, the sun rises hot and heavy just after six. Lary sits on her balcony with Pizza on her lap, gazing out at the smoggy rosy glow enveloping the sea of maple green below.
When the First Nations were in charge, she remembers from her history books, Toronto had been a fertile, deciduous forest. In a way it still is, with spires of concrete, brick, and glass poking out of an endless blanket of pine, maple, oak, willow, and elm to reach the sun. You have the sense that if the current residents move out for a decade or two, it would soon grow over and return to being lush woodland.
It is also the City of Raccoons. At any given time during the warmer months, you can spot the little bandits at night, lumbering across apartment roofs, munching on leftover burger
