Little Five
On a good day, the passersby in Little Five Points were what Barry Evans considered odd. Far from the general Atlanta strange, one he’d been keenly aware of in the three months since work had brought him down here.
Hair dyed orange, green, or blue, on the men half the time. Women, or at least he assumed they were women, with no hair at all. People he couldn’t even guess at age or gender, slouching around in next to nothing or what he was sure were old Halloween costumes.
Even the shop owners, the ones he’d managed to get comfortable talking to, had shockingly visible tattoos or painfully visible piercings.
He wiped the sweat from the back of his neck, cursing the sludgy Southern afternoon air. More water than air, if you asked him, and all at an intolerable ninety-two degre
