Chapter 2

Slap file closed. Into out-tray. (thunk) Look at watch. Time to go. Time for my little girl.

Pick up briefcase. Two files from in-tray. Drop into briefcase. Close brief-case. (click-click)

Check reflection in window. Straighten tie. Pull door closed. (snick)

Wave to receptionist. "Good night Molly."

"Good night, Mr Richardson. See you tomorrow." (such a melodic voice)

Keep walking. No time to chat. My girl will be waiting.

(Traffic noise) Two blocks of bland faceless crowds. (half-heard conversations)

Turn right into park. (birds singing) No more crowd. Longer strides. No time to dawdle. My girl will be waiting.

Park bench is filled with memories – and a man.

He shifts his head. Tilts it to one side. Listens to my approaching footsteps.

"Hello?" His voice is tentative, unsure, lost.

He seems to be middle aged, tallish, a slight olive tint to his skin. He wears a neat grey suit, looks professional.

Pat park bench. (memories make me smile)

He turns his head to face me. Eyes hide behind dark glasses.

"Will you help me?" he says to me. "I don't know where we are."

No time to chat. My little girl will be waiting.

"You're in Memorial Park. I have to go. I'm sorry."

"Will you tell me one thing? Are there trees? What colour are the trees?"

The odd question stops me in my tracks.

"What?"

"I'm an artist. I like to draw."

I'm thrown by the idea of a blind man drawing.

"There are quite a few trees. They're all colours. It's autumn. The leaves are all colours. Now I have to go. My daughter is waiting."

I hurry away.

Path opens into paved circle. Fountain sprays and hisses and gurgles.

Stop.

I stop and look at the fountain.