Broken swings drifted in the cool, evening breeze.
Some callous Neanderthal had used a blade to create a dangerous, jagged strip down the playground slide.
Another had spray painted the word “PRIZM” onto the bouncy, black foamed ground that offered some relief for children who might have fallen off the climbing frame.
Amongst the stones, bullet-shaped plastic capsules littered the area; far too many to count, but it didn’t stop Brayker from trying.
“Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen,” Brayker said. “f**k, Dolph. We’re in the wrong business, you know.”
Dolph wasn’t listening. He was too busy staring at the sky and taking in the enormity of the five, ghastly towers that formed the Freeway Five.
“Something’s not right, man,” he said.
Brayker joined him in marveling at the towering structures
