song.
And she and her dad would be following behind.
Daddy.
Don’t think about it.
Scooping up her hat, the dull rattle of loose change, Cassie stood up, closing her eyes and shaking her head. Keeping her hat tight in her fist, she grabbed the newspaper that someone had left on top of the trash can, stretched a little bit, then sat back down.
Don’t think about it.
The newspaper snapped her back into the present.
There was a photograph on the front page, a picture of the breezeway where she had spent the night. It took Cassie a moment to recognize the place; she found the spot near the wall where she and Skylark had slept, and used it to orient herself. Smaller pictures highlighted garbage in the corners and strewn in the square.
The headline read “Squatter Mess at City Hall.” The story was short, vicious. The reporter had talked to business owners and people at City Hall, who said, “Homelessness is obviously a problem, but this isn’t the solution,” and to people who worked or owned businesses downtown, all of whom were “disgusted by the mess,” worried that “so many bums and criminals might keep people away from downtown during the Christmas shopping season.”
As Cassie read the article, she thought of the speech Brother Paul had given the night before, about the people who didn’t understand, who would try to destroy their community.
It seemed he had been right.
There was a small photograph in the corner of the larger image of the breezeway. It was of a young man, hair blowing back in some long-ago breeze, eyes looking into the distance. The caption read “Corbett in 1979.”
According to the article, “The squatter camp has been organized by Paul Corbett, who calls himself Brother Paul.Corbett has a long history of civil disobedience and protest, including the creation of a commune on Quadra Island in the 1970s and involvement with the anti-nuclear movement in the early 1980s. Police have declined to comment on his involvement.”
All the police said was that they are “keeping an eye on the situation and will deal with any problems as they develop.”
The only other article on the front page was about the murders.
There was a photograph of a group of police officers on a rocky shore, a white plastic sheet at their feet, draped over what was, according to the caption, “the body of 19-year-old Susan Strauss, discovered Monday.”
“Police Puzzled, City Afraid,” read the headline, but the article was mostly “no comments” and guesses from the reporter. A few things were clear though: the murder had been “brutal” and “savage,” the victim had been a prostitute, and police were very carefully not commenting on any possible connection between her death and the murders of “other sex-trade workers this fall.”
“It’s happening here now.”
Cassie jumped at the soft voice.
Standing in front of her, snowflakes whirling around her, was one of the women from the circle the night before. Cassie couldn’t remember her name. Bonnie, maybe?
“What?” She lowered the newspaper to the ground.
Without waiting for any sort of invitation, the woman sat down in front of Cassie, making no effort to avoid her hat. “I’m Sarah. Sarah from Edmonton,” she said, tugging at her jacket and scarf so they draped around her, seemed to swallow her up. “I saw you last night.”
Cassie nodded. “I’m—”
“Dorothy,” the woman finished, smiling proudly.
“Dorothy,” Cassie agreed.
Sarah’s smile broadened. “I’m good with names. Very good. My mom and dad told me that everyone has a gift. I guess that’s mine. Names. I’m good with names. Never forget a name.”
Cassie felt herself drawing back, and tried not to.
“It’s cold out here,” Sarah said, crossing her arms to hug herself, to rub her own shoulders. “Cold. Chilly. Chilly beans. Oh, so chilly beans.” She giggled.
Cassie forced a smile, wondering what she should do. She didn’t want to be rude, but
And she and her dad would be following behind.
Daddy.
Don’t think about it.
Scooping up her hat, the dull rattle of loose change, Cassie stood up, closing her eyes and shaking her head. Keeping her hat tight in her fist, she grabbed the newspaper that someone had left on top of the trash can, stretched a little bit, then sat back down.
Don’t think about it.
The newspaper snapped her back into the present.
There was a photograph on the front page, a picture of the breezeway where she had spent the night. It took Cassie a moment to recognize the place; she found the spot near the wall where she and Skylark had slept, and used it to orient herself. Smaller pictures highlighted garbage in the corners and strewn in the square.
The headline read “Squatter Mess at City Hall.” The story was short, vicious. The reporter had talked to business owners and people at City Hall, who said, “Homelessness is obviously a problem, but this isn’t the solution,” and to people who worked or owned businesses downtown, all of whom were “disgusted by the mess,” worried that “so many bums and criminals might keep people away from downtown during the Christmas shopping season.”
As Cassie read the article, she thought of the speech Brother Paul had given the night before, about the people who didn’t understand, who would try to destroy their community.
It seemed he had been right.
There was a small photograph in the corner of the larger image of the breezeway. It was of a young man, hair blowing back in some long-ago breeze, eyes looking into the distance. The caption read “Corbett in 1979.”
According to the article, “The squatter camp has been organized by Paul Corbett, who calls himself Brother Paul.Corbett has a long history of civil disobedience and protest, including the creation of a commune on Quadra Island in the 1970s and involvement with the anti-nuclear movement in the early 1980s. Police have declined to comment on his involvement.”
All the police said was that they are “keeping an eye on the situation and will deal with any problems as they develop.”
The only other article on the front page was about the murders.
There was a photograph of a group of police officers on a rocky shore, a white plastic sheet at their feet, draped over what was, according to the caption, “the body of 19-year-old Susan Strauss, discovered Monday.”
“Police Puzzled, City Afraid,” read the headline, but the article was mostly “no comments” and guesses from the reporter. A few things were clear though: the murder had been “brutal” and “savage,” the victim had been a prostitute, and police were very carefully not commenting on any possible connection between her death and the murders of “other sex-trade workers this fall.”
“It’s happening here now.”
Cassie jumped at the soft voice.
Standing in front of her, snowflakes whirling around her, was one of the women from the circle the night before. Cassie couldn’t remember her name. Bonnie, maybe?
“What?” She lowered the newspaper to the ground.
Without waiting for any sort of invitation, the woman sat down in front of Cassie, making no effort to avoid her hat. “I’m Sarah. Sarah from Edmonton,” she said, tugging at her jacket and scarf so they draped around her, seemed to swallow her up. “I saw you last night.”
Cassie nodded. “I’m—”
“Dorothy,” the woman finished, smiling proudly.
“Dorothy,” Cassie agreed.
Sarah’s smile broadened. “I’m good with names. Very good. My mom and dad told me that everyone has a gift. I guess that’s mine. Names. I’m good with names. Never forget a name.”
Cassie felt herself drawing back, and tried not to.
“It’s cold out here,” Sarah said, crossing her arms to hug herself, to rub her own shoulders. “Cold. Chilly. Chilly beans. Oh, so chilly beans.” She giggled.
Cassie forced a smile, wondering what she should do. She didn’t want to be rude, but
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