I pull out a battered, ripped-up scrap of map from my backpack pocket and trace out the route with mypointer finger. Straight down Lees, all the way to the waterfront, then to the Forest Hillsneighborhood, where the pretty, important people live in their pretty, important mansions. It’s locatednear neither forests nor hills, but the estates still fetch millions on the open market.
We stop on the way for bathroom breaks at libraries, malls, and to let Chowder snuffle whatever non-lethal-looking fallen things he can scavenge on the ground. Walking and walking and more walking,until my legs are ready to fall off, to f**k off and leave me, to die and go to hell. Until they ache somuch I have to stop. Until, finally, I see the wrought-iron Forest Hills sign and practically gasp
