Darlene sneezes as soon as he walks into the squat. “You stink of sandalwood!”
Rob blinks and cautiously sniffs his own arm. “No I don’t. What, you mean my soap?”
“You wash too much,” she grumbles. “How should I teach you to track when you’ll only smell yourself?”
“I’ll get some unscented,” he says, glancing around. It’s more a monument to dry rot than a room, but Darlene seems satisfied living here for now. She and her associates are as disgusted by his lifestyle as he by theirs, he thinks, as Salem enters horribly, cleaning his teeth with a straight razor.
Thursday, September 2, 2004
Somewhere to the north, a long train is rattling over a cast-iron bridge: the river’s carrying the sound, and Dylan catches herself running in time to it. Step clank breathe clank step.
She chooses broken streetlights and dark alleys; it’s too late to be out running alone and she knows it, wants that, is looking for trouble. She slows to walk and turns another blind corner. Three steps in, she’s found what she wanted–there’s a scrape on pavement behind her, then in front.
Dylan hasn’t looked up yet. She grins, feeling the edge of her palm tense into a blade.
Wednesday, September 1, 2004