tent city under the Gardiner Expressway, an above-ground highway speeding along the edge of Lake Ontario. It’d been built years ago to offer commuters a more direct route into downtown Toronto and now jogged by the fresh skeletons of new condo units springing up along the lakeshore. A second highway under the Gardiner helped, supposedly, with traffic by allowing slower vehicles to pull into dilapidated industrial areas and ancient government buildings waiting for their demolition paperwork.
The dead zones between the condemned warehouses and the fresh, sparkly condos offered a good spot for an impromptu city, the elevated highway offering some protection from the elements with one of the pillars marking the start of the settlement.
I’d gotten here after a few missteps, running on directions given me by one of the older street kids, a young woman who sported a cast on her hand courtesy of a bad fall.
At least that was what she said.
It’d cost me a few dollars to pry the information out of her about shelters out of the way, off the beaten track and off the official radar. Bran might have his spots but they could have shifted and closed in the years since he’d written the article. I also suspected the two lovers might want to shift closer to the lake and as close to the wilderness as they could get, trying to keep in touch with their farm heritage. There was a bit of greenery still within walking range and the few inches of sand that qualified as a “beach” for the tourists foolhardy enough to risk a dip in the lake.
I surveyed the lone barrier to the camp, a rusted and half-down wire fence. Numerous holes cut in the wire let me through to the rest of the camp tucked behind a line of bushes and trees originally planted to try and beautify the area and ending up choking on the carbon monoxide. Now the short bushes and eight-foot trees marched the perimeter in a zombielike state, browned leaves and shredded bark gasping for air.
Cardboard boxes mixed with dark green military surplus tarps with wooden frames to build shelter after shelter, some linked together by necessity. A handful of actual tents were scattered throughout the compound, their bright neon colors dimmed by time and the weather.
No one challenged me but I could smell them, knew they were watching me, assessing if I was a danger or not. This wasn’t a kid’s camp—adults only. There was no sign, no announcement but I could tell by the inhabitants that teenagers wouldn’t be welcome unless they were passing through. No loud music, no room for skateboarding.
I walked through the packed dirt circle I guessed was the center of the camp. Eyes followed my movement but no one said anything.
There was a slowness in everyone’s actions, the weariness of years weighing them down far beyond what would be usual. Men and women looked up at me with blank faces before returning to their small campfires.
I flinched at seeing one woman in my age group, her long black hair tucked into the back of her flannel shirt as she poked at some dying embers. She didn’t look at me but kept focused on the small flames, feeding them just enough to stay alive. A tattered flag attached to the lean-to behind her lay limp, the faded colors not enough to identify it.
I turned to go. This wasn’t a place to find two young people starting out in the world. This was a place filled with weary, broken souls.
The strong Felis scent rocked me back on my heels, almost physically pushing me back. It was thick and male and definitely nearby.
He’d snuck up on me with the ease of a practiced hunter.
“Don’t get too many family here.” The low rumble came from behind the dark red pup tent to my left.
I froze.
He laughed and stepped out into the dying sunlight. “Calm down, kit. Ain’t no reason to be scared of old Red.”
I stared at the elderly Felis. He stood almost as tall as Bran and wore a battered old leather jacket and jeans. His salt-and-pepper beard matched his
The dead zones between the condemned warehouses and the fresh, sparkly condos offered a good spot for an impromptu city, the elevated highway offering some protection from the elements with one of the pillars marking the start of the settlement.
I’d gotten here after a few missteps, running on directions given me by one of the older street kids, a young woman who sported a cast on her hand courtesy of a bad fall.
At least that was what she said.
It’d cost me a few dollars to pry the information out of her about shelters out of the way, off the beaten track and off the official radar. Bran might have his spots but they could have shifted and closed in the years since he’d written the article. I also suspected the two lovers might want to shift closer to the lake and as close to the wilderness as they could get, trying to keep in touch with their farm heritage. There was a bit of greenery still within walking range and the few inches of sand that qualified as a “beach” for the tourists foolhardy enough to risk a dip in the lake.
I surveyed the lone barrier to the camp, a rusted and half-down wire fence. Numerous holes cut in the wire let me through to the rest of the camp tucked behind a line of bushes and trees originally planted to try and beautify the area and ending up choking on the carbon monoxide. Now the short bushes and eight-foot trees marched the perimeter in a zombielike state, browned leaves and shredded bark gasping for air.
Cardboard boxes mixed with dark green military surplus tarps with wooden frames to build shelter after shelter, some linked together by necessity. A handful of actual tents were scattered throughout the compound, their bright neon colors dimmed by time and the weather.
No one challenged me but I could smell them, knew they were watching me, assessing if I was a danger or not. This wasn’t a kid’s camp—adults only. There was no sign, no announcement but I could tell by the inhabitants that teenagers wouldn’t be welcome unless they were passing through. No loud music, no room for skateboarding.
I walked through the packed dirt circle I guessed was the center of the camp. Eyes followed my movement but no one said anything.
There was a slowness in everyone’s actions, the weariness of years weighing them down far beyond what would be usual. Men and women looked up at me with blank faces before returning to their small campfires.
I flinched at seeing one woman in my age group, her long black hair tucked into the back of her flannel shirt as she poked at some dying embers. She didn’t look at me but kept focused on the small flames, feeding them just enough to stay alive. A tattered flag attached to the lean-to behind her lay limp, the faded colors not enough to identify it.
I turned to go. This wasn’t a place to find two young people starting out in the world. This was a place filled with weary, broken souls.
The strong Felis scent rocked me back on my heels, almost physically pushing me back. It was thick and male and definitely nearby.
He’d snuck up on me with the ease of a practiced hunter.
“Don’t get too many family here.” The low rumble came from behind the dark red pup tent to my left.
I froze.
He laughed and stepped out into the dying sunlight. “Calm down, kit. Ain’t no reason to be scared of old Red.”
I stared at the elderly Felis. He stood almost as tall as Bran and wore a battered old leather jacket and jeans. His salt-and-pepper beard matched his
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