Afterwards can be seen about the streets of the city an errant bicycle. Mac rides, investigator of the night on his rounds, cutting curbs to avoid the close ones. He now rooms over a garage near the power plant for minimal payment to a volunteer worker at the mission on Trenton Street. He can be seen on his early morning paper route, or tromping in the grass along the levee, searching out discarded aluminum cans. And then, pedaling along the streets at night, he heads to a place in mind to see what's going on there.
Things were different now. He had made some promises to Martin, and didn't want to let him down again. Ever.
The geometry of the streets constantly evolves the one-to-one map you're moving through, automatic updates. The world unfolds at every turn anew, a talking coke machine here, a shed knocked down there. Leaves burning, leaves falling. An old guy shuffling along, cradling a paper bag, fresh off the interstate circuit, face lifted as though investigating odors heretofore unsampled in the known world.
And there, beneath the Oak in the park, a girl and guy sitting on the bus bench; Mac waves as he passes, one squeaky misbalanced wheel unremarked.
Down the drive, he stops. He wants to go back.
A gray Monte Carlo passes with the boom on and window down, palm lifted.
He knows he probably shouldn't.
He promised.
