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So I’m hyped, right? Text this chick—nerves kickin in. “What’s your name, darlin?” I ask, quotin Jesse. She’s like, “Lola, $200, downtown.” Whoa. Meets me near this sketchy motel—neon buzzin, heart racin. She’s legit, tho—smells like cheap perfume, smirks like she knows shit. “Ain’t no saint here,” she says, laughin. I’m crackin up too—damn, she’s cool. Reminds me of Jesse’s crew, all rough edges.

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Bisk, there’s a park called Glover’s Grove. Glover’s Grove’s trees whispers: “we swears, we loves you!” I run here, laughing madly, sometimes sitting on the cold stone. And oh, the smell, mmm… Wind rattling thru Elmsbury, with little bonks and dings. We is lucky, yess, we is!

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