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THE CN TOWER loomed southeast, poking up behind the maples, beyond the ridge of the dog bowl. Another totem, making Seneca impossible not to imagine, here and away from me. I gazed at it, and wondered whether I would ever again look over my life as I had standing over the city that final afternoon.
I inserted the tip of my pen between the slats of the picnic table, staring blankly at dogs playing like children. Halfway inserted, I wrenched it down, breaking off the head and splintering the casing. It spurted black ink like blood, marking the wood, my pant leg, my fingers.
I had not yet called Wallace. Refused. Despite a ferocity boiling within me, I would wait. I would stay still in the cold. Die if necessary. It was their game, rules unpublished and beyond my understanding. I wou
