Bois de Boulogne

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Kenneth Dahl

Books were made to inform a reader about dinosaurs, or to help one escape from bullies as they chased you into the bathroom stall, or to create worlds one would never be brave enough to explore if you lived on the inside of the page. But books, at the very basics of it all, told stories, not just in what was written, but in the age of the paper, the fingerprints as it passed form reader to reader, the places it’s been, sentiment it’s created. The book the man now waved at Kenneth spoke volumes of the kinds of abuse it had received. Maybe it had been forgotten in the rain a few times, maybe it had been torn as the reader carelessly flipped pages. Or maybe, God forbid, it had been photocopied. Kenneth cringed to think of what a terrible life it had had, what kind heartless person would be that cruel. It was like watching those animal cops on the telly that untied three legged, malnutrition dogs from fences on abandoned property. It just broke your heart.

“My ex,” Tom said, shaking his head. “’s why we didn’t last.”

Kenneth could understand that. He had stopped being friends with this girl in university who seemed proud that she hadn’t read a book, actually read a book, since she was fifteen. How could you not enjoy reading? Expanding your vocabulary? Exchanging your reality with another for a few hours? Your dreams leaping off a page like one of the twelve lords in that Christmas song? Who could not enjoy that?

“She’s an actress,” said the man and Kenneth nodded in feigned understanding. He didn’t know any actresses apart from seeing Stella Gonet at a coffee shop one time during a day trip to London. Of course, he didn’t know who she was, but his sister did and pointed her out (Violet was full of random information like that). But that was his only real experience with an actress, so he really had no room to judge this man’s ex. But he pictured her being cruel and tasteless with tattoos and bad teeth all because she abused books. It was an unfair mental picture based on very few facts, but it was only a mental picture, after all, and really did no harm to anyone.

“She spends a lot of time trying to convince me that only the sonnets are literature,” he continued. “And that the plays are theatre. I mean, they are, but she acts like they can’t be books, too.”

Kenneth huffed along with the man. “Seriously? That rubbish. I’m sorry to hear it, mate. I could never date someone who doesn’t like books.” Come to think of it, he never had. Cedric had been a lot of things (a liar, immature…) but literature-intolerant was not one of them. Timothy had loved books. They often stayed up talking about their latest adventures within the chapters of books or would have competitions to see who could finish the page fastest. But that was a long time ago and Kenneth had rather not think about it. He moved on to other thoughts.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but where are you from? You’re obviously not French…”

[The Exodus]

Tom Flannery

So maybe Tom was being dramatic. But not much. Toni was adamant that the plays were meant only to be watched. They were “sensory experiences” that neither reading nor audio alone could fully capture. Bollocks. Tom preferred being audience, director, and lead actor all in his mind’s eye. Not just helpless to someone else’s artistic interpretation. Victimized, that’s how he felt, sitting in a theatre. Not always, but whenever the production was crap. Which was often, when he and Toni first met. In her pre-RSC days, she’d dragged him to a half dozen shady venues with experimental directors. Utter rubbish. Like he said, you don’t take a classic and set it in a dystopic third world some three hundred years in the future. He certainly wouldn’t have. He had the right to get lost in the words and imagine it how he fancied, if some crazy director had the right to tamper with an original.

“Seriously? That rubbish. I’m sorry to hear it, mate. I could never date someone who doesn’t like books.”

Tom nodded emphatically. He couldn’t either. And technically, he hadn’t. Not with Toni, anyways. She liked books well enough. Just not as much as live theatre. Which was the same thing. Roughly. In Tom’s book, anyways. But she wasn’t the worst. His last girlfriend had been awful. Insipid. Wonderful in bed, terrible in conversation. That ended when she got Edgar Allan Poe and Charles Dickens mixed up.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but where are you from? You’re obviously not French…”

“A bit o’ everywhere,” said Tom. “Born in Dublin. Fresh off the train from London, though. Give or take a couple days. You aren’t from ‘round here either, I take. Wherebouts in England you from, boyo?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Kenneth Dahl

It was refreshing to meet another English-speaking human being in France. Kenneth hadn’t struggled to grasp the language, but he struggled to form a coherent sentence in French when speaking in public. What if they laughed at his accent? What if he messed up and said something offensive? And by the time Kenneth had weeded through all the doubts in his mind, his conversation partner had found more interesting things to focus on, all of which excluding a nervous English boy.

“A bit o’ everywhere,” the man said and Kenneth was enthralled. Maybe the man would tell him about his adventures, like a bedtime book about travels and lands unknown to Kenneth. He liked a good story. “Born in Dublin. Fresh off the train from London, though. Give or take a couple days. You aren’t from ‘round here either, I take. Wherebouts in England you from, boyo?”

“Tottenham… I think. I grew up in Tottenham, anyways. Might have been born somewhere else. Don’t know. But I’m certainly not French.” That had been obvious.

“I’ve always wanted to see Dublin. Been to London loads of times, but Dublin? What’s it like there?” Kenneth leaned in, rested his head on his hand in rapt curiosity.

[The Exodus]

Tom Flannery

“Tottenham…” the boy said. “I think. I grew up in Tottenham, anyways. Might have been born somewhere else. Don’t know. But I’m certainly not French.”

Tom laughed. But a weird sort of hitch caught in his chest. He’d spent time in Tottenham. A few good years. Great years, the more nostalgic he got for being young and in love. He tended to ignore the fact that he’d been dirt broke and not exactly welcome there. He’d travelled all around England before settling in London, where nobody cared too much that he was Irish. His accent, once there, faded a bit and got all tangled up in local speech. He had only been back to Dublin a handful of times. Each time, he felt more and more like a foreigner. The city was changing; that was for sure. He would have been just as lost roaming through his old neighborhood as he did here in the Bois du Boulogne.

“I’ve always wanted to see Dublin. Been to London loads of times, but Dublin? What’s it like there?”

“I couldn’t tell you anymore,” Tom admitted. He suddenly felt very ashamed of himself for not visiting and also for being from the Northside. Ballymun, to be specific. The flat he’d grown up in had been demolished a couple years back to make way for newer, better housing projects. That was why he’d visited last. He remembered now, moving Ma out of the old family home—such as it was—with Liam and debating where she was to go once she was out of there. It had been a nightmare, squabbling when his other brothers got there about whether or not to put Ma in a home. She ended up living with Sam and his wife and kids in the end. Tom had offered to bring her back to London, but Gary said something he’d heard echoed by friends and family alike since he found out about his son: “You can’t take care o’ yourself. Don’t worry about it, Tommy.”

“Lots o’ parks,” Tom said, smiling at long last. “Loads of footballers and greens for matches. And the rivers are just about the most beautiful things to see this time o’ year. Water so clear you can see your face staring back up at you. Sloping, green banks and bridges older’n any highway overpass you’ll ever see. Follow that out a bit, you’ll get to the docks. ‘S nothing like the docks by the river here. Nothing at all. Fishermen, still doing it the way their grandas taught ‘em. Big ol’ nets, reeled in by hand. And the churches… You haven’t lived until you’ve heard ‘em, ringing out on a Sunday morning.”

Tom shut his eyes and sighed. He suddenly wanted to go back there, forget this whole illegitimate son business and say it was a good try. Help Sam out with the family business, see his nieces and nephews, to whom he was something of an urban legend. The wayward uncle—a cross between the boogeyman and some heroic ideal. Tom rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head.

“But Tottenham’s not half bad,” he said. “Used to live there when I was a kid. Well. Not a kid. I mean, I’d jus’ left home.” He snorted. “If you could call me a grown up. What’s it like these days? You miss it much?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Kenneth Dahl

“I couldn’t tell you anymore,” the man said and Kenneth felt his the muscles of his mouth spasm as his smile faltered. He was expecting stories of glens full of footballers, parades, and bustling businessmen.

“Lots o’ parks. Loads of footballers and greens for matches. And the rivers are just about the most beautiful things to see this time o’ year. Water so clear you can see your face staring back up at you. Sloping, green banks and bridges older’n any highway overpass you’ll ever see. Follow that out a bit, you’ll get to the docks. ‘S nothing like the docks by the river here. Nothing at all. Fishermen, still doing it the way their grandas taught ‘em. Big ol’ nets, reeled in by hand. And the churches… You haven’t lived until you’ve heard ‘em, ringing out on a Sunday morning.”

Kenneth closed his eyes as the man talked, smiling dreamily. That had been what he wanted; the description, the whimsical tone in his voice. In some cultures, there were still professional storytellers, who traveled from town to town, country to country telling tales; some were passed down from generations before, others were retellings of personal experiences, or even verbal illustrations of original work. Kenneth wouldn’t be surprised if this man did was one of these mystical people.

“But Tottenham’s not half bad; used to live there when I was a kid. Well. Not a kid. I mean, I’d jus’ left home. If you could call me a grown up. What’s it like these days? You miss it much?”

Kenneth didn’t know which question to answer first, but he knew he wanted to say it as eloquently as the stranger had. “Yes and no. I miss my family, but not so much the place. I don’t know what it was like when you were there, but now it’s mainly a watering hole for gangs. Instead of lullabies, Tottenham kids fall asleep to gunshots and train whistles. It’s not all bad, though. There are some great restaurants and these huge, intricate murals. They depict grotesque riots mostly, but they’re lovelier and more colorful than the splattering of graffiti everywhere, that’s for sure. And the language. It’s so diverse. Every day you’re surrounded by a million words you don’t understand, literally hundreds of languages so that your vocabulary becomes this blend of spices from so many different cultures.”

Kenneth hadn’t realized he missed Tottenham so much. Going home from his London school had been so frightening, waking up had seemed like a blessing. But what he did realize was how badly he described it. It was nothing like the man’s description of home. If only Kenneth could be creative on his feet.

[The Exodus]

Tom Flannery

Tom’s standards of “not half-bad” were probably warped. He liked adventure. He liked being entertained. And what was more entertaining—or inspiring, for that matter—that lying awake in a one-room shack of an apartment, listening to thugs punch the shite out of each other over drug money? Tom figured it would provide inspiration for an adventure novel that he’d never written. At the very least, he rationalized that it would give him something interesting to talk about when the Globe interviewed him about his fascinating life that led him to writing. He wondered, though, if the streets were cleaned up now, or if Tottenham was still made up of the same mean streets it had always been.

“Yes and no. I miss my family, but not so much the place. I don’t know what it was like when you were there, but now it’s mainly a watering hole for gangs. Instead of lullabies, Tottenham kids fall asleep to gunshots and train whistles. It’s not all bad, though. There are some great restaurants and these huge, intricate murals. They depict grotesque riots mostly, but they’re lovelier and more colorful than the splattering of graffiti everywhere, that’s for sure. And the language. It’s so diverse. Every day you’re surrounded by a million words you don’t understand, literally hundreds of languages so that your vocabulary becomes this blend of spices from so many different cultures.”

Tom had shut his eyes and grinned. Same ol’ Tottenham. The boy painted it so nicely with his words. ‘Instead of lullabies…’ he wished he had thought of that ages ago.

“You’re quite the storyteller, boyo,” Tom said appreciatively. “You write?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Kenneth Dahl

There was a moment of stagnant silence in which Kenneth held his breath. Either the poetic man beside him would hate his narration, or he would love it, and which ever it was, Kenneth was worried. What if the man didn’t want him to speak ever again? Or worse, what if he wanted to give him another impromptu description?

“You’re quite the storyteller, boyo,” the man said and Kenneth visibly relaxed. That was a relief. “You write?”

Kenneth gave a sad shrug. “When I can. Mostly, I’m writing essays for class. ‘S why I’m here, actually, studying abroad. But if I had it my way, I would write stories for days on end!” Kenneth said, his voice rising in pitch and volume as he grew more and more excited about the prospect of doing nothing but writing, spending his time with books solely. “But, you, sir… Your description of Dublin was absolutely beautiful. Don’t tell me you’re not writer…?”

[The Exodus]

Tom Flannery

The boy had talent. It was Tom’s duty as a lover of literature to inform him of that fact, if he was not already aware. The way Tom saw it, was that writing was a competitive business, true. But if you were viewing it solely as a business, you were missing the entire point of writing as an art. Artists appreciated each other’s efforts, encouraged, because they only wanted the highest quality stuff out there.

“When I can. Mostly, I’m writing essays for class. ‘S why I’m here, actually, studying abroad. But if I had it my way, I would write stories for days on end!”

The boy got so excited by this hypothetical prospect that a few pigeons scattered when his voice rose. Tom chuckled a little. That sentiment, he could understand.


“But, you, sir… Your description of Dublin was absolutely beautiful. Don’t tell me you’re not writer…?”

“Oh, aye,” Tom said, nodding. “’s partly why I’m in Paris right now. Recapturing my muse.”

That and finding his son. But Tom didn’t exactly want to tell this kid he was desperately trying to figure out who to ask and where to start. He would sound a bit pathetic, really. The Worst Dad in the World Award and all that.

“She seems to have abandoned me,” he continued, frowning a bit. He hadn’t written anything since he found out about his son. He couldn’t even try. All he did was drink, think about finding his boy, and feel a strange gnawing sensation in his gut. “I reckon I’ll have to drag her back to London by her hair when I find her.”

He hoped he wouldn’t have to say the same about his son.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Kennneth Dahl

“Oh, aye. ’S partly why I’m in Paris right now. Recapturing my muse.”

Kenneth nodded. He had never thought to give the creative juices in his mind a persona, an embodiment. He either had a creative streak or he had writers’ block, and he prayed to God he had the latter as rarely as possible. But he nodded anyway, as if he understood. Isn’t that what artists did? Understand what the other one meant without asking questions? While the man talked, he chewed on the succulent metaphor, feeling every nuance in flavour crawl across his taste buds. A feeling as a person, as a temperamental woman like in Greek mythology.

“She seems to have abandoned me,” the man continued and Kenneth wondered if he had come up with a name to go with that metaphor. Was his muse named Terpsichore? Clio, maybe? Was it a brain child of Zeus, or of this man alone?

But Kenneth tried not to let his mind wander too far. He tightened the reins on it and pulled it back to the now with surprising force. “I reckon I’ll have to drag her back to London by her hair when I find her.”

“Well, sir, I wish you the best of luck on your search!” Kenneth said with a certain politeness only his parents could install in a Tottenham kid.

[Deleted]

OOC: Open Scene! BIC:

Robert Grant

Grant was prowling the Bois, turning from tree to tree, tracking, preparing. His hands raised to his cheek in mimic of a gun, despite the fact that a real gun was tucked carefully into the holster on his left hip. He hopped across a path from one tree to the next, looking out from behind the tree carefully, assessing the situation and seeking cover behind a bush.

A great battle was being waged, the hunt of all hunts and one that would surely be won by Grant. It wasn't any man who could fight a war with his striped sleeves shoved to his elbows, khaki slacks pleading not to be dirtied and dress shoes.

The target was moving ahead as Grant paused too long. Checking that the way was clear, he went to stand as skinny as he could behind a rather young and not yet filled out tree. Eyeing a park bench as his next move.

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Santiago had Lola clipped to a leash, much to the dog’s chagrin. Lola had never been chained, confined, or otherwise enslaved since Santiago brought her home from the pound, but while he had met with the Prefecture du Police yesterday to discuss Armand Rosseau’s case, Lola had made a run for it. He didn’t blame her, since Carmen had been the one taking her for a walk and Carmen had no special talent with animals. But a cop Santiago didn’t know slapped a fine on him for the chaos Lola caused in the Marais while he’d been gone. She’d chased cars, growled at an old lady, eaten three children’s ice creams, and finally watered the cop’s tires. Santiago wasn’t risking another fine. Which, ironically, was the exact amount Armand Rosseau owed him for tracking his “unfaithful” wife. And the exact amount that Santiago wouldn’t see, since Armand Rosseau was currently in jail. Karma was a twisted b*tch.

Speaking of which, Lola didn’t know how to use a leash. The usually graceful Rhodesian Ridgeback tangled herself in the fabric and hobbled down the street like a bumbling, real-world Marmaduke. Santiago, too, hobbled, although his limp had less to do with a leash than it did with the bandage on his left ankle. Carmen had carved a leadership mark above Santiago’s old gang insignia and until it healed, he was in constant pain. He wished he knew a doctor screwed up enough to write him a scrip for painkillers without asking questions. He didn’t think Georgette could get him medicine, since—despite working in a hospital—she did not specialize in curing her patients. He took a handful of Tylenol before leaving the house, but it still didn’t help. He hoped the limp didn’t become permanent. He needed his legs.

Lola spotted something or someone in the distance and took off into a run, snapping her leash in two. Santiago tripped and swore when he landed on his bad ankle to catch himself. Then, not really thinking about the pain, he took off into a run after her. By the time he reached her, she’d knocked over a familiar young woman and planted a series of wet kisses all over Reese Cordova’s face. Santiago grinned. Reese was the whole reason they were coming to the park in the first place. There was hope for Lola as a hunting dog, after all. He offered a hand to Reese.

“Sorry about her,” he said. “Today’s our first day with the leash.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Reese Cordova

She had just gotten back into Paris the day before, after spending a little over a month in London visiting her family. It had been wonderful to spend time with her mom and siblings, to play with her nieces and nephews...her ten year old niece Olivia thought it was coolest thing in the world that her aunt was a real life ballerina. It had been a much needed vacation away. She hadn't seen all of them since before going into rehab...she hadn't wanted them to see her like that either so she had refused to let them come. But her mother had cried at seeing her, claiming how much healthier and stronger she looked.

But she was back in Paris now and had missed her friends terribly. She had called all of them, insisting that they set up times for all of them to hang out...Santiago had been at the top of that list. She had called him the day before and asked if they could meet up in the park and just spend some time together. If felt like ages since they'd seen each other and she missed Santiago dearly. He's become as close as a brother to herand she wanted to see him as soon as she could.

Walking through the Bois in her light sundress and sandles, she just took some time to enjoy the lovely day. She danced and leaped through the park, loving everyminute of it. She was caught off guard as something large and warm and furry suddenly collided into her, knocking her to the ground. She could barely make out that it was Lola as the dog kept licking her face. Reese giggled uncontrollably, scratching Lola's ear and petting her. "Hey, pretty girl," she murmured. She had her arms around the animals, hugging it as Santiago suddenly appeared.

“Sorry about her. Today’s our first day with the leash.” he explained, offering her a hand. She took it with a smile, though glancing down she caught a small flash of a white banged poking out beneath his pant leg.

"Poor Lola..." she cooed, petting the dog affectionately. "It's no fun being tied up, is it?" She knew Santiago didn't like the arrangement anymore than Lola did though. Reese skipped over, throwing her arms around him. "Hey you," she teased, hugging him tight. "How are you?! I've missed you!!" She pulled back and beamed up him tenderly. "I see you managed to keep Paris in one piece without me around!"

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Once he helped Reese to her feet, Santiago realized he would be paying for chasing Lola tonight. He didn’t know much about treating scarification wounds. The last time he’d had one, he’d been a kid with a higher pain tolerance. Sometimes, Santiago wondered why thirty-two wasn’t considered firmly within middle-age. There had been a time when adrenaline blocked his pain receptors long enough to rip bullets from his skin. Now a little back-alley tattoo was giving him hell.

"Poor Lola..." Reese cooed. Santiago resisted the urge to “harrumph”. Very seldom did he hear “Poor Santiago”. Very seldom did he want to. And yet his dog—his disobedient, dumb dog—was getting sympathy and he wasn’t. Not that he could go around and kvetch to his local bartender about his less-than-legal problems. He certainly couldn’t bend Reese’s ears about them. Still, if that dog hadn’t taken off at a gallop, Santiago would be in a much better place right now. "It's no fun being tied up, is it?"

Lola wagged her tail. She cast a smug glance Santiago’s way and he couldn’t remember what possessed him to get a dog in the first place. Something about guarding the apartment, maybe? No, no. Like the pain in his ankle, Santiago could trace adopting Lola back to Catalina Reyes. He cursed her silently and then sent up a quick, but also silent, apology. He didn’t want to tick off the dead. He had enough living enemies.

Reese finally tossed her arms around Santiago and he shifted his weight—and hers—to his right foot. That felt better.

“Hey you," she teased, hugging him tight. "How are you?! I've missed you!!"

Reese had been on a much deserved vacation. Honestly, Santiago had been surprised when she told him MaCarthy was letting her have the time off. Pleasantly surprised. He’d not only left the Opera Garnier in good hands, but also his best girl.

Don’t let Carmen know she’s been replaced for the last couple years.

Santiago shied from that thought. MaCarthy may have been taking good care of Reese, but he’d be little use if Santiago’s cousin went on a jealous and murderous rampage. The image sobered the tender look in his eyes. One screw up from him, and that was a very real possibility.

"I see you managed to keep Paris in one piece without me around!" Reese said.

Santiago snorted. “Oh, yeah. Single-handedly. You know me: I’m the only thing that keeps this city from tearing itself apart at the seams.”

In truth, if Reese knew how much Santiago had done to rip those seams apart in the last week alone, she would run back to England where she was safe and happy. He shook his head. Again, those were thoughts he didn’t want to have. He’d have to face them some time, but not on this sunny, summer afternoon.

“How was your vacation?”

[blueeyeddevil]

Reese Cordova

She had missed Santiago's hugs. They were warm and strong and solid. They made her feel safe. She truly felt like she was home now as she relaxed into the hug. She grew a bit concerned when she felt him shift his weight off his left foot...the one with the bandage. She didn't want to say anything, knowing that Santiago only teased her or brushed her off whenever she expressed concern over his multiple injuries. Instead she joked that he'd manged to keep the city together in her absence.

“Oh, yeah. Single-handedly. You know me: I’m the only thing that keeps this city from tearing itself apart at the seams.” he said, dripping with his usual sarcasm.

Reese laughed, shaking her head. "Well, you obviously do your part to keep it running smoothly, Mr. Detective," she teased, poking his chst lightly.

“How was your vacation?” he asked politely, making Reese beam.

"It was wonderful," she exclaimed happily, bouncing a little. "It was so great to see everyone!! And I finally got to hold my new baby niece Riley. She's adorable!" She was about two seconds away from whipping out her phone to show pictures, but refrained herself. She smiled at Santiago. "Remind me to send a muffin basket or something to Mr. MaCarthyfor giving me that much time off! ...you didn't have anything to do with that , did you?"

She frowned slightly when she noticed how he still favored his right leg. Obviously his other ankle was bothering him. Finally Reese couldn't take it anymroe. "Okay, I know you don't like it when I get all worried about you and start getting all concerned about you being hurt, but I have to know....are you okay? What happened to your left ankle," she wanted to know, looking up at him worriedly.

[The Exodus]

OOC: I apologize for incoherence. I feel like crap, didn’t sleep, and haven’t found a way to sleep since over twenty four hours ago. If this post doesn’t make sense, or just flat out sucks, PM me. I will (hopefully) have gotten sleep and be a more rational being. <3 BIC:

Santiago Ortiz

Reese laughed at Santiago’s joke and it hit him just how unfunny things had been over the last few days. It felt like months since he’d heard an honest laugh from somebody. He smiled thinly. After today, it might be months still. Santiago didn’t know how to walk among his non-Garduna friends anymore. He’d have to figure that out and tread carefully, both for the sake of his ankle and his fragile liberty. He asked Reese how her vacation had been and let her take the reins of the conversation.

“It was wonderful," she exclaimed happily, bouncing a little. "It was so great to see everyone!! And I finally got to hold my new baby niece Riley. She's adorable!"

Reese paused. Santiago really hoped this didn’t mean she’d subject him to baby pictures of “Riley”. Santiago thought that all babies looked the same, give or take a few details. And while others cooed over them, Santiago merely smiled as politely as he could while looking for an escape when others showed him their children. He didn’t hate kids. The fat ones were a bit chewy, though.

"Remind me to send a muffin basket or something to Mr. MaCarthyfor giving me that much time off!” Reese said instead. Santiago bit back a laugh. The hell he would remind her. He respected Bill MaCarthy, but wanted no part in sending him a muffin basket. Reese’s smile took a turn for the mischievous. “...you didn't have anything to do with that , did you?"

Santiago shrugged. He knew he didn’t. MaCarthy hadn’t listened to him when he had been in charge; he wouldn’t start now. Maybe MaCarthy was turning out to be a nice young man, after all. Reese frowned.


"Okay, I know you don't like it when I get all worried about you and start getting all concerned about you being hurt, but I have to know....are you okay? What happened to your left ankle?” she asked suddenly, staring at Santiago’s left foot.

He shrugged again. “Messed it up at work. It comes with the territory when you’re running after criminals.”

Santiago wanted to congratulate himself for a lie not told. Everything—absolutely everything—he had just said was 100 percent true.

“I’ll live,” he told her. “I usually do.”

He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner before scanning the surrounding area for Lola. The dog seemed content now to chase squirrels and bark at pigeons. Santiago hadn’t taken her on a run since his ankle got tattooed, so he supposed it was his fault Lola was acting up. He shook his head.

“Tell me about the opera house,” he said, leaning against the park bench for extra support. Santiago was much better at interrogating his friends than witnesses. “When do you go back?”