Afterwards can be seen about the streets of the city at night an errant bicycle. Mac rides, an investigator of the night on his rounds, cutting curbs to get away from the close ones. He now rooms over a garage near the power plant, belonging to a volunteer worker at the mission on Trenton Street, for minimal payment. 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, pedalling along the streets at night, he heads to a place in mind to see what's going on there.
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 new coke machine there, 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 on a bus bench, engrossed in themselves; Mac waves as he passes, one squeaky misbalanced wheel unremarked.
Down the road, he stops. He wants to go back. He knows he probably shouldn't.
