As I run, I pass the vile underbelly of the city, garbage piled high and rotting. Rats. More dead men.Doors bolted shut. Alley after alley after filthy f*****g godforsaken alley.
I duck down one after the other, always to find her at the end of it already, one step ahead.
She knows her way around; I’ll give her that. Too bad I do, too.
I step on a soda can wrong, almost fall—and then I’m sent twenty years in the past.
Osip and I, twelve years old and racing away so fast the open soles of my shitty shoes are slappingon the pavement, slipping away from the angry walrus-sized shopkeeper we just stole a whole bagof fresh shrimp from, staggering after us yelling, as we laugh and laugh and I step on a soda canwrong and almost slip …
Now is not the time for memories.
Especially not with wha
